If you are one of those smiling, doughy-looking characters who mean well but whose biggest thrill of the year is to light up your front yard with inflatable plastic creatures that have nothing to do with a southern hemisphere Christmas celebration while drawing 150,000 amps per minute from the grid, don’t read on as you will find this column offensive.  

So, this is Christmas. The time of year the world’s commercial gears crank up to  full capacity. We seem to forget about the environmental dilemma we find ourselves in and buy lots of junk for the kids that will be lucky to make it in working order into the New Year.  

The lead-up to the big day has us guzzling booze and delicious food which only makes an appearance once a year such as Christmas mince pies and other assorted pastries in the shape of other Christmassy figures.  

And we aren’t satisfied until we have visited one of these turn-outs every other day prior to Christmas Day.  It is as if the world ends after Christmas. Everything has to be just right for the rellies to visit and you can’t get a tradesman for four weeks prior.  

The shopping centres are abuzz with the sound of parents making Christmas-style ‘no toys’ threats to their children. Most folks are already stretched beyond their budgets but keep buying in the hope the New Year will alleviate their budget woes.  And there is definitely a temporary woe reliever to be found in the bottom of the bubbly bottle.  

On the day itself, we humans seem to think it is our God-given right to make our family Christmas tables heave with all the poor little animals we can get our hands on.  

The prawns cop a hiding along with the ducks, pigs, geese, turkeys and little lambs for sausages. Someone’s probably even eating kangaroo or croc.  The day typically ends with bellies full, rude aunts and uncles draped over your soft furnishings and some sort of sporting activity in the backyard.

 I guess my dislike of the big day is deep-rooted, from growing up in my early years as a Jehovah’s Witness, where we did not celebrate such things or for that matter anything.  

But whether it’s your thing to have a traditional Christmas or more your bag to do what Donna and I did last year, which was a Macca’s quarter pounder and a movie, I hope you all enjoy the day.  

But please remember: to a kid under two, the box and gift paper are as good a present as the present itself and maybe just for a moment consider the environment.  Bah Humbug Christmas rant over…  

Ed’s note. I wonder if this means I don’t have to do a family Christmas with Kyle this year? And (below) in more Christmassy times! He hasn’t always been a Grinch…

The trip’s finale  

We flew into LA a few weeks ago and my first thought was tipping the staff. This is a costly consideration considering the exchange rate and the 20 per cent of the  bill expected.

This is some weird business idea that just wouldn’t work in Australia because firstly our minimum wage for casual employees is $28 per hour and we tip if we are treated right or have had a good time with friends.

But in the good old USA where the minimum wage is as low as $2.50 per hour and veteran barkeeps and cocktail shaker artists can expect the withering tops of $12 per hour, they need tips.  

Another thing I don’t like about America is it’s full of Americans, who from my first impressions seem to be a bit piggish and selfish in their behaviours. I mean who blows their nose on a linen napkin at a restaurant?

Well, it turns out a good portion do. They are also loud and they talk the talk in terms of Christian behaviour and ethics but it seems to me that they would rather walk over each other than walk the walk.  

Things I like about America are limited but extend to their attitudes to dogs which can stay at hotels and fly with you. I also like the airplane seatbelts that could strap in an elephant and, even for me, leave an 18-inch tail after I am buckled in.  

Hotel rooms that you could swing half a dozen cats are great, and finally when the airplane docks, it isn’t a surprise to the groundcrew. A skybridge instantly appears and everyone gets off quick sticks.

Our trip through Central America came to a sad end when we found ourselves transferring through Auckland Airport and accidentally cut the queue. We and a couple of others had followed signs to the transfer which led to us blending into the queue.

We were quickly told by an American to go to the back which by this time was about 200 deep. She proclaimed it wasn’t fair, my retort was “you are quite right,  you have had your say and it’s now time to keep quiet, it was an accident”.  

Most of these countries in CA are poor, dirt poor and that is evidenced by the dirt that makes up their floors, the lack of amenities and stuff like running water that we all take for granted.

You won’t get to see that from a resort or a tour but deviate slightly from the promenades and boardwalks put there as welcome mats for the tourists, and you will get the picture. It doesn’t seem to matter where you go: Antigua, Costa Rica, Columbia or Panama, the story is the same, most of the folks out here are impoverished, living day-to-day.

And it galvanises my opinion that Australia is certainly the land of milk and honey with social services that offer a safety net.  Finally, we have arrived home and it feels good. I am tired.

Now I have been tired before, so tired as an 18-year-old deckhand after a gruelling 60 hours straight on the fish, steaming for an hour to pick up a longline set.

It was summer in the far north of New Zealand, breeding time for the snappers and huge pay cheques for the fisherman, but you had to work long and hard. I was in wet-weather gear but it was wetter on the inside than the out due to the roughness of the sea.

I lay on the deck, the lower half awash with the ocean, the upper half in the wheelhouse soaking up the heat from the engine until those dreaded words shattered my sleep “standby, standby” as we arrived at the fishing grounds.  

But I can’t recall being so tired that while having a pee last night, leaning on a wall, I fell asleep midstream until one of my legs gave way and woke me up. Such is the tiredness I experienced after our whirlwind trip to Central America and back.  Travel rant over…   

The cruise so far…  

We picked up the ship in Los Angeles on November 7 for a 17-night voyage,  down the west coast of south America through the Panama Canal and eventually onto Florida – where there is a bit of concern about a hurricane visiting the port at the same time we dock.  

Anyway, we have just left Antigua and find ourselves at the half way point. And to steal a line from Good Morning America “it is hot, dam hot, hot and wet, which is okay if you’re with the ladies but not so good if you’re in the jungle.” And this is their autumn, and according to the locals summer is “hell”.

The food halls onboard, particularly the buffets are full of huge Americans, an older mob, mainly an eat-in crowd.

But you can’t let the copious consumption of canapes fool you, although half of them are electric chair bound, as it turns out they can move fast. Even faster if they are on their feet, as two couples from either side of the Trump camp found out.

There was a bit of lip to one another followed by a bit of biffo, and then the wives joined across the buffet.

Their cruise ended the next day with an unceremonious departure from the boat, after being locked up, while everyone else went onto their shore excursions.  

One thing that has left me gob smacked and with a feeling of throwing my hands up in the air in terms of climate change is the pollution. This seems to be due to the rich getting richer and the poor getting the picture. Thanks Midnight Oil.

Most of these countries however seem to be rich in resources with oil, jade, silver and coal to name a few, being hauled out of the earth. Where are the royalties going?  

Then there was an information session on the ship, just asking the usual questions like how many eggs do you need onboard and what happens to the food we don’t eat.  All I suppose in an effort to justify the never ending whirring of the turnstiles at the buffet.

But Donna piped up and asked a beauty with the 20-minute answer from a senior officer flooring me. She asked “what happened during Covid?”  

So they had left Sydney in early March with a full complement of passengers  aboard. They got word that the world was starting to shut down and tried to re-enter Sydney with their mainly Australian passengers to no avail.

So, they bounced up and down the Pacific eventually tying up in Hawaii. The company chartered planes for the passengers and then took off for Miami where they sat for months.

By this time,  they were onboard distancing with the crew maintaining the two-metre rule wearing masks 24/7. All but a couple of decks had been closed to preserve power and all the bars, restaurants and meeting rooms were covered with sheets.  

Eventually in October, 2020 the Norwegian Jewel, which we currently call home,  was ushered to a private island in the Caribbean where she was pressed into action as a quarantine ship.

Most of the crew went home via other ships leaving a skeleton crew of 98 keeping things going for two years while some of their family members died back home.  

This has got me thinking about the bad old days of Covid and how there has never actually been an end, it just kind of drifted away.

It has not exactly been like the celebrations around the end of WWII and we have no way to mark the event, and process our feelings. Long lockdown days that drove us all spare and tore families  apart.

Extra-long rant over…  

Although we have a family of magpies at TL HQ,  I have never been attacked, that is until a recent trip to Melbourne.  

My relationship with the birds was galvanised during the pandemic. Each day after toiling away on the paper, in the cut and thrust of lockdowns, Donna and I would sit down with a drink on the balcony, rain, hail or shine and feed our black and white feathered friends.  

At the time we would barely see anybody. We would collect our groceries at the Click and Collect in Woodend and then spend half an hour cleaning them on the  stove hob and in the sink. I would light up the hob after the food cleaning exercise to kill bugs and spray the sink with Glen 20.

The booze was delivered courtesy of the good people at Cellarbrations in Daylesford and it would spend a few days on the back deck de-bugging.  

Exercise was with a mask around the Glenlyon Reserve and an excursion to  get out of the house was a drive through Daylesford with the air conditioning on reticulation as recommended by a nurse we know.

The world was upside down and if  a pig had flown past the window, I would have simply said ‘G’day’.

But back to the backyard birds. They were all individually named – there  was Uncle Bulgaria, Dumper Duck and Puffy just to name a few. It was a multi generational family of maggies that even during the breeding season never swooped, I  have heard they do recognise individual people.

Yes, it was crazy times and at times I  thought I was going crazy, but things were what they were.

Speaking of crazy and before I bore you with the rest of my magpie yarn, scan the  QR code below to check a battle myself and my nephew had.

It was during an alien invasion at a recent virtual reality experience and will also give you some insight into the vocal levels during the magpie attack.  

But back to bird skirmishes. I have chuckled my fair share of times at the  “funniest home video style” antics of folks I have seen being attacked both on video and IRL.

The screams, gyrations and at times, flesh wounds, as folks throw themselves on the ground, crash their bikes and do the ‘hands in the air’ dance.

Now it was my turn. As I walked around the corner under a low set of trees in a garden bed, I felt the first contact of the claws on my head.

My first reaction was to put my sunglasses on my head as swoop two commenced with that horrible snapping noise they make with their beaks.  

My second defence was to yell out “I know Uncle Bulgaria and his family” as I  got lower into the garden.

There seemed to be no escaping this pair of protective dive bombers, I kept running and stumbling into the undergrowth.

At one stage, in an  effort to pull some speed off my combination headfirst run and breakdance move, I  hooked my arms around a tree trunk to slow me down and skun up my wrists, only  to look up and see the mad bastard birds were  only a metre from my face.  

I did a backwards worm through the undergrowth that would have won at the Olympics, and then that was it, I was  obviously at the limit of their protection  zone.

I finally emerged from the urban jungle bloodied, bruised and breathless, with a large  audience looking on at the man responsible for the blood curdling screams.  

Embarrassing bird rant over.  

Just had the great-nephew over from New Zealand. I say great, not because he is great, although he is, but because he is my sister’s daughter’s child. So I guess that makes him great rather than grand. Not sure. Happy to be corrected.

He’s 14 now and first started visiting us on his own at just 12. He loves Glenlyon and thinks Radio Springs Hotel is the most friendly place in the world. Alcohol will do that to you. Not him, the friendly adults.

Then we took him to Japan this year in April which was great fun. We don’t have kids so we finally get to do all the kid stuff that looks odd when you are an older adult.

And he didn’t even mind that we popped him on a rickshaw for a ride around an old historic town and its onsen. Matsuyama if anyone is wondering.

And he told us this time around that he doesn’t think of us as old. Maybe in our 30s and much younger than my sister and her husband, which is very nice. I passed on that news very quickly.

And so, thinking we are young, he spent some time teaching us the latest words the young people are speaking. That was interesting. Laugh Out Loud is long gone although he does use it for fun.

But think of words like Sigma, or my favourite, Skipidi. They both have pretty much no meaning and can be used at any time, for anything. Work that one out.

So for example, you could say “see you on Monday, sigma”. Might be good, might be bad, no-one really knows. Still getting my head around the point of it all, as least when we were young our slang had meaning.

Then there’s the phrase “put the fries in the bag, lil bro” – a sort of putdown for people working in menial jobs. I asked if I could use that in the McDonald’s Drive Thru and he said I would probably end up wearing a McShake.

“Cap that” means that it’s wrong or bad. Where I always thought it was a reference to a bullet, as in “put a cap in you”.

There’s another one I won’t mention here because it is quite rude but the woman who coined the phrase has since made millions off TikTok and other social media platforms.

Oh, “rizz” is short for charisma so that was an easy one to work out and then there’s “brainrot” which is a term for all the useless words and web scrolling being carried out by Generation Alpha. As in my great nephew.

His generation also finds it hilarious when other generations try to use their language, as did independent Australian senator Fatima Payman talking in Parliament last month.

Just some of her speech went like this: “To the sigmas of Australia, I say that this goofy ahh government have been capping”. (Lying.) “Just put the fries in the bag lil’ bro.” (Labor, do your job.) “You can forgor (forget) all about watching Duke Dennis or catching a dub (win) with the bros (friends) on fort (the game Fortnite).”

And then – “I would be taking an L (losing) if I did not mention the opps, who want to cut WA’s “gyatts” and services tax. The decision voters will be making in a few months’ time is between a mid government, a dogwater (unskilled) opposition or minor parties and independents that will mog (be better) both of them.”

Anyway, it was a lot of fun having him around for the week and we think next year we might do a roadtrip from Darwin to Alice or vice versa.

Donna and I lived in Alice for a bit and there’s something about the red of the Outback. We feel like we have to keep it happening because in a few more years he will work out that we are old and will choose his friends over us, as it should be. But for now, he’s our friend and we are his fun, and young, uncle and aunt. Feels good. Family rant, more rave, over.

The cat is now out of the bag. TL HQ (AKA The Old Glenlyon Primary School) is on the market with rumours and speculation whirring about the future of The Local. (It’s all good…)

And the old story stands true, if you don’t know what you are doing in a small town, just wait a moment and the townsfolk will tell you.

So, after 20 years of enjoying our wonderful home, creating a business (The Local) in what is arguably one of the best offices I’ve ever worked from, we have decided to hand over the role of custodian of the school to the next people.

I never really thought of myself as the owner of the school, it was more like it owned us and we were simply the caretakers, and it has been an absolute pleasure and honour.

But The Local is a lot of work alongside my other commitments, which these days include visits now and again to the Gold Coast writing for boating industry magazines.

Yes, my other dream job. I mean, who wouldn’t want to write about and capture the joys and handling characteristics of gin palaces while clipping down the humpback highway at outrageous speeds. Dipping a toe into the lifestyles of the rich and famous, seeing how the other half live and not having to pay for the fuel.

So, we are going to downsize and live in the lovely town of Daylesford where life is a little more convenient, the watering holes are but a stagger away, and yes, it will be business as usual for The Local which these days is mostly run by Donna.

I simply keep the air in the tyres in terms of logistics and bookwork. The decision has been a five-year back and forth arm wrestle with her indoors, but finally we are ready to make the move. It’s not easy.

The Glenlyon School is not just a home but also a very special place shared by generations. God knows it’s so hard to make the decision to sell your home, let alone to sell something with so much history that gets all the ooohs and aahhs as visitors come through the doors.

A place where the crew from The Local have spent many a relaxed afternoon shooting the breeze in the aptly named “boardroom”, a 16-seat long table positioned under the 150-year-old oak tree.

So I hope this puts to rest anymore rumours that we are off, and that we are simply doing what many people do, decide it’s time for a smaller home and one that is a bit closer to amenities.

But that’s enough about our journey and on to the current affairs of the day, starting with old Trumpy and the strange claim immigrants are “eating the cats and dogs” in Springfield.

Except the woman who started the rumour, found her cat alive and well under the house, and then popped next door to humbly apologise to her neighbours for the baseless accusation. I doubt a spare cup of sugar is now available.

And then we move on to the discriminate killings that are going on in the Middle East which have turned indiscriminate. Killing innocent people who just happen to be in the same place at the same time as the target.

Who dreams this kind of madness up, the world’s in enough of a pickle as it is and now it won’t be long before an upgraded mobile phone could be your end.

Finally good news, and closer to home, huge congratulations to all of our sporting heroes involved in this year’s football and netball finals.

And especially to the efforts of the Daylesford Seniors Netball and Football teams who had a cracker performance in the Grand Finals. Congratulations. And commiseration to Hepburn netballers – so close but no cigar. Rumour rant over…

What sort of skullduggery is this? When a poor struggling billionaire who beat accusations he had built his tech fortune on a fraudulent deal gets towelled over by a waterspout?  

Now, I know boats, and as a young curious commercial fisherman I drove a seven metre boat right through a waterspout, but apart from frightening my crew, which was the whole point, not much else happened.  

I do however realise climate change is here, and storms are much worse than 30 plus years ago when I had my soiree with the spout.

However, this latest incident was with no  ordinary boat. The Bayesian had an overall length of 55.9m, a beam of 11.51m, a draught  of 9.73m and a volume of 473 gross tonnes.

Her mast stood 72.27m high above the  waterline, just short of the world’s tallest mast.  All in all, this boat was unsinkable and being less than 300 metres offshore in terms of  a maritime disaster this is up there with the Titanic on how many specific stuff-ups had to line up to cause this.  

And if you combine this with a few days beforehand, his co-defendant getting run over by a car while out jogging, it sounds like a load of karma is going on and dealt by the hand of Mother Nature herself.  

In other breaking news: A favourite saying of my father’s is “as I am so ye shall be”.  He usually lowers his voice to a gravelly Kenny Rogers’ Oh Ruby tone, as he thinks it adds  gravitas.  

The old bloke had a ripper weekend in New Zealand as he celebrated his 80th  birthday a few weeks back.  The weekend ended with Donna breaking her wrist around 2am after just one of three  evening parties.

I was nowhere to be found as my own family thought it would be a great  idea to extend the party back to our motel and they bailed Uncle Kyle into the back of an  SUV in a Taken-style abduction.  

Now I do have a very particular set of skills but they don’t extend to fumbling around  in the dark while more than a little tipsy trying to unlock a car boot. So when Donna  finally made it back to the motel broken, beaten and covered in mud, I felt very bad and even turned the music down so I could better hear her mumbling and talking about how I  was to blame for the situation.  

But Dad has repeated the aforementioned saying a lot, as old folks tend to latch onto things, and I think he thinks it makes him philosophical. I am not sure where he got it from but a quick Google reveals it’s not from the Bible. It is actually from an old Indiana tombstone epitaph.

It says: “Pause, stranger, when you pass me by: As you are now, so once was I. As I am now, so you will be. So, prepare for death and follow me.”  

However, an unknown smartarse added these words: “To follow you I’m not content,  Until I know which way you went.” Which I must retort to the old bugger the next time  he regurgitates his favourite saying.  

In further news, in fully woke mode, it seems like it is illegal now to call someone a Ranga, an abbreviation of orangutan, and common when referring to redheads or gingernuts, such as myself.  

It looks like Gold Coast Mayor Tom Tait is in all sorts of trouble for calling one of his counterparts a ranga. And then there is old mate the crossing guard at the school crossing down here in Victoria, who got into a world of trouble for high-fiving the students as they  crossed the road.

WTF is the world coming to?  So, I’m off to the primary school to find a small range child to high five and tell them ‘as I am, so ye shall be’.  The world news rant over…  

Recently it has come to pass that a lot of large news outlets including the ABC and the New Zealand Herald have turned to AI to write some of their stories. And being the curious bugger I am, I put the tech to the test.

I put in the words Pothole, Hepburn Shire Council, Grumpy Old Man and Winter and in less than half a second it spat out the following. And apologies in advance to the shire.

On a chilly winter morning in Hepburn Shire, a grumpy old man named Harold found himself behind the wheel of his rusted old truck, navigating the winding country roads that were all too familiar to him.

The frost had settled on the ground overnight, and as the sun struggled to peek through the dense clouds, he grumbled to himself about the state of the roads.

“Every year it’s the same story,” he muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp.

“Hepburn Shire Council promises to fix the potholes, but here I am, dodging craters like I’m in some kind of obstacle course. It’s a wonder I haven’t lost a tyre yet!”

Harold had lived in Hepburn Shire for over fifty years and had seen the town change dramatically. The once-bustling community was now a quiet shadow of its former self, with many younger families moving away for better opportunities.

He often lamented the loss of the vibrancy that once filled the streets and shops. The winter’s chill only seemed to deepen his melancholy, making him feel more like a relic of the past.

As he drove, Harold’s thoughts drifted to the various council meetings he had attended over the years. He had often voiced his concerns about the roads, but each time he left feeling more frustrated than before.

The council members, in their polished suits and polished speeches, rarely seemed to understand the plight of the everyday resident. They promised improvements, but the potholes remained, a constant reminder of their empty words.

Suddenly, as he turned a corner, he spotted a particularly large pothole right in the middle of the road. “There it is!” he yelled, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

He swerved to avoid it, narrowly missing the edge of the road. The truck jolted violently, and he felt a wave of anger wash over him.

“I swear, if someone gets hurt because of this, I’ll march right into that council office and give them a piece of my mind!”

As he continued driving, a memory resurfaced of a winter festival held in the town square when he was a young man. Families would gather around the fire, children would build snowmen, and laughter would fill the air.

Now, it seemed like the only sound was the crunch of gravel under his tyres and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.

Harold’s thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a young couple walking hand in hand along the road. They waved cheerfully, and Harold managed a small smile in return, despite his sour mood.

“At least some things haven’t changed,” he thought, but the smile faded as he recalled how long it had been since he felt a sense of community.

He continued driving, his mind racing with ideas for how to bring the town together again. Maybe he could organise a winter clean-up day, rallying the community to fix the potholes and spruce up the town.

If the council wouldn’t take action, perhaps the residents could come together to make a difference. As he pulled into his driveway, a sense of resolve washed over him.

Harold might be a grumpy old man, but he wasn’t ready to give up on Hepburn Shire. With a little effort and a lot of determination, he believed they could transform their town back into the vibrant community he once knew.

After all, winter was just a season, and spring was always just around the corner. AI rant over…

We are heading off to New Zealand in a few weeks, for my dad’s birthday.  The old bugger is turning 80 so we can’t really say no.

We had thought it would  be nicer for the entire family to head to the Gold Coast or somewhere warm but Cliff  was keen to stay home – he doesn’t like to travel much anymore.  

Nothing really wrong with him, no medication at all so far, not even blood  pressure or cholesterol like most middle-aged people, just can’t be bothered going  overseas.  

Mind you, he doesn’t mind travelling in his own backyard. Just bought a huge  campervan earlier this year. Upgraded from a van with a sort of homemade bed in the  back and a shower system hooked up off the back somewhere to swivel-front chairs,  and a small kitchen and bathroom. Sheer luxury.  

I worry about Cliff, now and again. He is your kind of “rip, shit and bust” bloke  who would rather climb on a roof and nearly fall off than call someone younger with two working knees.  

He also has a small fishing boat which he takes out a few times a week. By  himself. No life jacket. I once bought him a life jacket and was amused, not, to see it draped over a kitchen chair every time we Facetimed him. It never even made it on  the boat.  

At 80 Cliff is no longer working but often talks about all the taxes he has paid over the years, which I find funny because I don’t recall him paying tax after he was about 45, he’s a bit of a wheeler dealer. I don’t know if he has ever paid taxes.  

He is also a bit of a strange dad because rather than being pleased with achievements, he likes to talk them down.

Actually, he doesn’t even do that, just talks  over them with things he has done over the years. Even if that is 50 years ago. I hear a  few people get stuck with narcissistic parents – I guess it’s just the luck of the draw.  

Donna used to live in The Range when she was growing up in Frankston and she always thought the words to that song, Home on the Range, were “seldom was heard,  an encouraging word”. True story.

Bet was horrified when she sang it to her one day.  “We always encouraged you,” Betty apparently told her. “Why did dad call my BA  degree, Bugger All?” she asked. “He was just having fun,” she replied. Funny bugger.  

Anyway, we head off to Auckland and then up to the Bay of Islands for a night at  the local bowlo, and then the following night at Cliff’s.

A few friends and family are  coming along and some are staying in their vans in the yard, others in the house.  Donna and I are in a nearby motel. She learned long ago to never stay with  family. Just doesn’t work out well. I think she told me she likes her own bathroom.  

And very early on I told Dad that. So the one time we did stay, in a little attached  bungalow, Cliff was very proud to show her the room had its own toilet. Yep, a full- sized toilet, not plumbed in or anything, just with a cartridge inside the base – and a  curtain.

I think that is when the “no staying with family” rule kicked in.

Or it might have  been at my mum’s house where we got to sleep on cushions from the lounge suite, on  the floor but behind the actual lounge for privacy.  I am sure it will be a fun-filled weekend with lots of strolls down memory lane.  

I have made up a very nice video which we will finish with a rousing rendition of  Happy Birthday. Should we try for 80 candles on the cake? Could be fun.

Or we  could start an friendly argument with a pavlova cake. Kiwis think they invented  them. Lots of ideas…  

And then the next big one is Donna’s next year. Sixty. How the hell did that  happen? Just wondering? Getting older, rant over  

If you need cheering up don’t read this column – it contains the misery- infused thoughts of a middle-aged bloke who has just realised he has no control over his world. 

It also reflects that after four and a half years of remaining vigilant, staying away from people and being hyper-aware, I have contracted Covid.

Although apart from the things that you do differently if you have a cold or a flu’, like the testing and locking yourself away like Typhoid Mary, I have escaped the awfulness of the bug. I have had a mild sore throat, a couple of overnight body aches and a bit of sweating.

I have also passed it on to the wife who has come out of things largely unscathed as well and for this we know we are lucky.

Speaking of lucky and a jarring segue, we do live in the lucky country and within the lucky country, one of the luckiest districts in the Central Highlands.

But I have been watching with interest the news around tobacco stores getting firebombed down in the city – it is almost as if there is a new fire every time I flash up the TV.

There is obviously a little skulduggery going on although some of the vision is almost on the entertaining side with bandits lighting themselves up as well.

But by and large this must be heartbreaking for the business owners, with the illegal dealing in ‘darts’ being at the heart of the problem.

I don’t confess to knowing the ins and outs of the criminal ciggie commerce but it’s reported to be a third of the bunga trade that is illegal, which makes for a very profitable portfolio from cancer sticks.

If you Google a little deeper, you will find the police are running around busting the bandits and relieving them of their stash of smokes and the usual guns and cash that accompany such dealings.

There are also reports some of the cleverer criminals who have gone into cropping not too far from here. But why has this suddenly become a problem, a turf war and battle for control of that extremely lucrative black market?

It seems the government and previous governments are to blame. In an effort to tax the fag out of existence they have created a problem where there was none.

Yes, smokes aren’t good for you, but tobacco isn’t illegal. And I can brew my own beer, wine and spirits at home. And alcohol is proven to have large social consequences. People beat up on each other, drive cars that cause massive damage and ponder why it is they haven’t taken up professional dancing earlier.

But we are still allowed to brew, buy and generally write ourselves off every other night in an effort to think life’s not such a hard slog. And yet it is illegal to grow tobacco in Australia without the appropriate excise licence. It seems to be all about the tax.

The government is so hell bent on keeping its tax, even though the market is declining, that they are causing harm to the community they are supposed to protect.

I don’t for one minute believe they are trying to protect the youth from the perils of vaping, they are just trying to figure out a way to tax it. Don’t get me wrong, I think that smoking and vaping are equally bad, and at some point a weight on our health system.

But I like a wine and at what point will they tax the substance so heavily that it will drive it underground, gangland style?

Prohibition by taxation doesn’t work, it never has, humans will always find a way around the rules and those that rise to the top will make a tidy little profit on the way. Rollies rant over…

(Ed’s note: I blame Kyle for bringing home Covid. Had a massage with an unhappy ending.)

Recently a friend of mine was walking around Lake Daylesford with their dog and was verbally assaulted by an idiot after an off-leash dog incident.

It was an ordinary day in their mind and the fresh air was beneficial simply because of the ordinariness of the day and the chance for a tiny bit of “me time”.

You see, they are part of the sandwich generation, folks around their 50s who are sandwiched between teenage kids becoming adults and ageing parents. Trying hard to carve out time for themselves to keep healthy both mentally and physically, rather than taking a back seat to the others in their lives who require their constant attention.

But back to the attack. Lake Daylesford, despite what people think and do, is not a leash-free area and my friend had a small dog on a lead.

The attacker in question’s unleashed larger dog got a little too close for comfort and my friend asked if they wouldn’t mind heeling their dog.

This birdbrain then called her a “Karen”. You know, Karen from Brighton who shot to infamy after complaining about lockdown walks around her posh beach-side suburb.

This was “whatever” in my friends’ eyes until the guy took a second look and decided she was not only a Karen, but she was a fat Karen. WTAF?

Now I know quite a few Karens, and they are great people, and it is a pity Ms Brighton gave them a bad reputation, but it is the buzz-word, meme-ridden universe we live in. But the fat comment? And he repeated this a couple of times.

“You’re not just a Karen, you’re a fat Karen”, he laughed. Just like a parrot.

I have yoyoed my way along life’s road and know if I’ve put on a lump or two and I don’t need anyone to enlighten me. I have multiple mirrors I can look at and clothes that become a little tighter now and again.

I don’t need someone to point it out. And it’s not like the surprise of having your fly down when someone kindly points it out (thanks lady in the chemist the other day). Or like someone saying you have left a bit of food on your cheek. Those comments all come from a good place.

Being honest, guys are particularly cruel, and say things to one another like “it looks like you’ve been in a good paddock”. I am sure my guy didn’t mean anything wrong, while I was just looking around the supermarket for a dinner idea, but I just wanted to shrink away.

But maybe he should think about it next time. I hadn’t been busy exercising as I had spent the last three years of my life dragging his free newspaper from inception to a great read. Read that!

Back to my friend’s aggressor. Just don’t be a dick. My friend is a wonderful person who spends her time helping others. Not just family, also friends and the community. And she has been through a lot. And you made her cry.

Believe me if people knew your identity it would not end well. Aggressor rant over…

Did former Premier Dan Andrews deserve the nation’s highest honour, the Companion of the Order of Australia for his service to Victoria, public health, policy and regulatory reform, and to infrastructure development?

I guess it is all about what he did for our community during the Covid pandemic. It certainly wasn’t a normal time in the world although it certainly became the new norm.

But what is “normal”? According to the dictionary, it is the usual, typical or expected state or condition. And while my typical state may be different to everyone else’s, I expect that the government will look after the people in the best way possible using the resources they have gleaned from the people, namely tax dollars.

And I don’t proclaim to be an expert, however the sometimes draconian measures were a little hard to swallow.

Like the bloke who was walking along Back Glenlyon Road without a mask who got pulled up by the police and requested to don his facemask. If you have ever walked along this road you will understand the irony, there is nobody there but the odd cow.

I understand that we had to wear the masks but it was more about the enforcement. Dan and his cohorts had to make blanket rules to keep the great unwashed in check. Yes, the rules were hard to take and the hardship was horrendous but it was all about keeping the community safe until a vaccine could be made available.

I am pretty sure looking at the latest budget he didn’t leave anything in the tank financially, and most people were able to get by and businesses incubated until it was safe to reboot things.

And yes, a few businesses didn’t make it as no one wanted to go back to highly populated areas, but you must remember that 60 per cent of businesses in Australia will fail within their first three years of operation with 20 per cent of businesses failing in their first year of operating.

Yes, lockdowns were hard and grinding and the divorce rates went through the roof and as a result of the sudden “out of the gates” move, post pandemic spending and inflation has caused a cost-of-living crisis.

But these problems are global, they are not caused by the Dan Andrews’ government, everywhere around the world is teetering on the edge of recession. And so, it goes as in the Oils song, “the rich get richer, the poor get the picture”.

Personally I don’t believe that Dan should have been given the Order of Australia by Charlie for doing what is effectively his job.

However, it was one hell of a job he got lumbered with, not the usual turning sods of soil at green sites and talking up one’s political party.

The job Dan did was constantly keeping us updated, rolling out the cash and going grey on the TV before our eyes. So good on you Sir Dan rant over…

It feels like the world has gone and got itself a bit tangled up at the moment.

On the local front, it feels like we have more issues with our council than we know what to do with. And particularly around three major issues.

It almost feels like there is a revolt in the wings with the Rex debacle costing us ratepayers around $5 million and no word from the Local Government Inspectorate on who was up who, and who was paying.

Then there is this whole restructure debacle that, although it is not the fault of Hepburn Shire Council, I believe is being led by the men in black from Spring Street.

And not Glenlyon’s Spring Street. I am talking about the Melbourne street of power and money misuse. But of course, the focus and energy of the locals is directed at our council.

And then there is the crescendo, the triptych of tyranny, “the budget”, which depending on who you ask is a $4 to $5 million dollar hole year-on-year for at least the next couple of years.

Most assets of any value we had in the piggy bank were caught up as sweeteners in the Rex, traded like horses to bring down the apparent cost of the building.

So here we are battered and broke and is it time to call time of death for the council and hand the whole “chuck wagon” of a show back to whoever handles these things in Spring Street.

Has the community had enough? And if administrators were brought in, where does that leave the restructure plans? And is it better the devil you know trying to pull us from the dank dungeon of debt?

Lots of questions and the answers seem to be a bit homogenised for my liking, a little too PC and press ready.

Back on the world scale, and in case you have been sleeping under a rock, Donald Trump has been found guilty of falsifying business records to cover up an affair with a porn star – making him the first former US president in history to be criminally convicted.

But with less than six months before the election, I reckon the wriggly slug of a man will appeal and tie things up in all manner of legal complications. His backers will vote him in, and when he gets found guilty again, he will simply pardon himself using his presidential powers.

Actually, under that great free nation’s law, the good old USA, you can become president even if you are a criminal. It just means you can’t possess a gun but you don’t need one when you have your own personal army.

The world’s on its head rant over

Is the Hepburn Shire Council doing the bidding of the state government in a sort of puppet master – puppet relationship?

I never thought I’d become a conspiracy theorist, but it’s not much of a stretch to go from an inquisitive mind who sees beyond the rhetoric and probably pays too much attention to a full-blown, capsicum spray recipient who marches to the beat of everyone else’s drum.

And although I am firmly not an anti-vaxxer, and certainly believe in what happened in terms of death and destruction during the pandemic, it is not such a long bow to draw for me to say that someone could have possibly been behind the whole disaster. After all, it’s just letting a couple of new bugs out of a bottle and the rest is history.

You must ask yourself who gained from the whole thing? The short answer is that the world was cruising along nicely in 2019. We were in a good space with technology, some of us used it, but most of us could take it or leave it.

And housing prices were not too bad by today’s standards. Fast forward to 2024, most families will be yoked to the banks for the rest of their natural lives, paying out overblown mortgages and we all are well familiar with technology and most of us rely on it for our daily lives.

When you figure out the answers as to what changed, then who benefited is not too much of a stretch. Banks and technology companies who now account for the top one per cent of the hugely wealthy. But that is just a little too deep for me, so getting back to the puppet master, the state government of Victoria.

It is no secret the whole show is almost broke. Probably because of the pandemic as well as organising huge infrastructure contractors, cancelling them and paying them out large sums of money for not lifting a finger. A classic misuse of the public purse.

So how does a government get out of a red hot financial mess – and with a housing crisis happening and being predicted to be a sort of a tsunami on the economic horizon?

You would have to bring in some smart cookies to figure this mess out. Some special bureaucrats from the “men in black branch” of the government who sit around in think tanks and plot sneaky shit all day long.

Please remember this is just my theory and don’t take it to the bank, but it does seem to stack up when I passed it by the mayor the other day during an interview.

The first move: On July 1 last year the “windfall gains tax” got passed into state legislation. This tax applies to land which is subject to government rezoning resulting in a taxable value uplift to the land of more than $100,000.

In short, if you were a local farmer tending your land and the local council came along and rezoned it, normally you would be up for a huge pay day. But the state government has ensured that the poor farmer, if they sell or leave the land vacant, gets the absolute shit taxed out of him which returns to the state.

The second move: Slip the puppet onto the master’s hand (local councils). In November last year the local government areas were asked to start compiling some land to chop up for future development, this is currently what you see in the form of “Future Hepburn”.

This will ultimately result in windfall gains tax, forcing the farmers to sell to developers and line the pockets of the government. The timing is too slick to be coincidental and I don’t believe for one moment it is in the best interests of our community.

But it is not our local council’s fault. They are simply doing the government’s bidding and I believe this particular issue goes way, way up the food chain and is well beyond our control locally.

My two cents worth, rant over…

Tesla motor cars, in my opinion, aren’t all that they are cracked up to be.

Here at TL HQ we have joined the electric car race and decided to trade the 2009 Toyota in on a Y series Tesla (T). Now, I have been searching around the new car market for a while as regular readers are aware, and it has been important to get an electric vehicle not a combustion engine.

The other side of the purchase argument is it had to be a long-term car as we don’t change our cars very often, so we decided on a new bouncing baby, red Tesla. It was a bit more expensive than other electric cars, however it is built from the ground up to be electric. Not just had its engine pulled out and replaced with an electric engine as some manufacturers are doing.

When parking the thing I am contending with all the sensor sounds and bonging of the proximity alerts, but I do have quite a few cameras looking around to help out this incompetent human. Oh, and then there is the wife who is constantly reminding me in a worried “lookout” voice about things I could bump into, so no more Braille parking for me. (And the worried voice beside me turns to a scream when the T offers me an auto park and I accept.)

But I must admit the auto park leaves something to be desired as the other day I was well lined up for a reverse park and could have completed the manoeuvre in one fell swoop. But I gave into the T’s desire to have a crack.

It then had half a dozen goes at trying to get in and I stopped it, overrode it and with a flick of the wheel was home in my park. It was flicking the wheel from lock to lock, flying full speed back and forward and back again and by that stage we were both screaming. Is there such a thing as a dumb, smart car?

And then there is the auto pilot where we did more than scream. I thought we were dead. Now these things come with two stages of auto pilot – the first is adaptive cruise control which is like regular cruise control, but it also locks onto the car in front. It then adjusts to their speed so you don’t hit them or of course you can change lanes and the cruise will get back to your speed. I could drive with that all day long.

The second marvel of technology comes in the form of a real auto pilot. You know when you have achieved this mode as a rainbow road comes onto the screen. But this bit of tech proved dangerous for us as we found out on the Calder Freeway recently. I was doing an overtake at 110km with a car following us, not too close, perhaps about three car lengths behind.

Everything was going well when the T decided to instantly brake to 60km for some unknown reason. And please bear in mind two of the great things about the T are its take-off – and braking.

The car behind us didn’t stand a chance and if it hadn’t been because it was my first time in this mode and my hoof was hovering above the accelerator we would have been in all sorts.

This phenomenon is called “phantom braking”. It is where the vehicle picks up on something and according to Tesla “errs on the side of caution”. Tell that to a huge semi that’s just entered your tailgate.

So we have since decided that as the autopilot was simply a $5000 ‘over the air’ upgrade, that we wanted it taken off the car. Surely it falls under the rights of the ACCC for a refund if something major is not working?

However the good folks at Tesla are duckshoving from one department to another skipping the pub test completely. Stay tuned rant over…