In the winter of 2021, I remember doing a call around the real estate agents for our now non-existent Country Life podcast. The market was absolutely red hot and a lot of building had started – if you could secure a builder, and properties’ days on market were off the charts.  

I replayed a couple of interviews from that time to refresh my memory and put a smile on my face after a long day this week talking to buyer’s advocates about the current state of the market, which you will find in our House.Land.Home real estate  feature in this edition.  

The worrying topics then were around infrastructure in our shire and how we  would cope with all the new residents.

According to one agent, a particular house  was listed for just shy of a million and after several (sight unseen) buyers had a bit of  a bidding war over Facetime, it was sold for $1.3 million in just a few hours. Ah, the  good old days.  

So during Covid, there were three buyers competing for each property, often  bidding above the asking price to secure a house.

Post Covid, we had two buyers  negotiating close to the asking price. Then interest rates started to climb, creating one  buyer for every five houses.

Now with the cost of living and higher taxes, there is one  buyer for every 10 houses.  I am no expert, unlike the Reserve Bank, so please do your own research and do  not base decisions on what I have to say.

But it isn’t that hard to figure out what to do  if you are ready to move on, upgrade, downsize or sea change.  

The state of the market is the same everywhere in regional Victoria, whether you are talking about the not-so-regional Mornington Peninsula, the Bass Coast or our own little bit of paradise here in Central Highlands.  

Therefore, it seems if you buy and sell in the same market you are not going to  lose your shirt. If your real estate agent tells you your expectations are too high, you  should probably believe them or get a second or third opinion.

If you can’t sell for what you need, don’t sell, if you don’t have to.  

There has been a market correction for a bunch of reasons. The first is a natural  correction off the back of the pandemic panic buying.

The second is the money grabbing state government who have pushed a raft of taxes through on investors, second home owners and accommodation operators.  

They have absolutely hobbled our real estate market with overlaying taxes and fees  that have made investors go to other states. Whether it be commercial or residential investors the story according to the three buyers’ advocates is the same.

There must  come a point when we, the people, have no more to give.  It simply doesn’t seem to pay to try to get ahead of the game through blood, sweat and tears only to be smashed over with taxes from both federal and state  governments, and then we have Hepburn Shire  Council going for a 10 per cent rate rise.  

It only took a couple of years to find  ourselves in this situation and perhaps it’s only going to be a couple of years and a change of state government to get us out.

But you can’t  live on hope or a crystal ball. So if you are in the enviable position of owning your home and wanting to sell it, my advice to you, for what it’s worth, is to buy and sell in the same market.  No expert rant over…  

As I glide into the last third of my life, my thoughts and priorities change,  and I seem to be getting less tolerant with no stomach for fools.  

Don’t get me wrong, I love to be foolish, used to be quite a hellraiser in my younger days, and am liberal with the dad jokes. (Husband says to wife,’is this cup half full or half empty? Wife says ‘please just take my bra off’. Boom boom.)  

But when it comes to the ludicrous behaviour of others, with a particular focus on the youth, I have no patience.  

My theory is that this has been going on for an age, as every generation reaches a time of stability and looks back on the ones coming through and complains bitterly.  

However, this time things seem to be different – youth crime is up and the elderly are not respected, just targets. The only way an older woman gets helped across the road is during a carjacking when she is tossed into the gutter sans handbag.  

Accountability for one’s actions doesn’t seem to be much of a priority anymore for many young people, but I have decided to hit back.

There was a road-rage incident I was tangled up in the other day which involved a truck so close behind me that the collision alarm sounded on the 80kph stretch of road out to Glenlyon.  

These tailgating events and general dangerous situations are so common in the country, particularly involving P-platers or large trucks. I don’t know what a truck driver would do if an animal did hop out onto the road or I felt like I wanted to tap the brakes for a bunch of birds who were gnawing on some roadkill.  

So, I waited until I got to the roundabout in Daylesford and I kept going around the roundabout until I was following the truck.

The driver pulled up erratically outside the Daylesford Railway Station and quickly hopped out – perhaps to have a go. But he didn’t realise I was simply after some details from his door which, once obtained, was followed by a quick phone call to his company and my job was done.  

My point is that although there seems to be no accountability, there are still pressure points you can push. We shouldn’t let bad and dangerous behaviour go unpunished.

We are so used to ignoring unruly behaviour on the streets because of the threat of violence and self-preservation. But we need to fight back and pot these dickheads any way we can.

Threaten their livelihoods by potting them into their workplaces or the police.  It is hard enough just driving and trying to stay alive on the roads with the potholes, animals, fog, ice and distracted drivers let alone idiots who are in a hurry.  

Speaking of potholes, there is a stretch of perfectly good, sealed road just beyond Blampied on the way to Newlyn. Recently this approximately 1000 metres of road was redone, which took a few weeks and a fair bit of traffic delay.  

Just metres from the end of this smooth new seal that didn’t need fixing and almost outside Maze House, is a real doozy of a bunch of bumps it seems the roadworkers missed (WTF).  

I know it is not a local council-maintained road and it is probably maintained by VicRoads but how do people whose duty in life is simply to find the bumps and fix them miss such a dangerous set of holes literally metres from the end of the works.  

It’s not as if they finish a full day in surgery and are a bit tired as they climb aboard the steamrollers and they make a little boo-boo missing the actual stuff that should be fixed.  

Road rant over…  (Ed’s note: To all the young people out there doing the right thing, and the roadworkers just doing their jobs, The Local apologises. It’s been a long week for  Kyle…)  

I really need to drop the kids off at the pool, build a log cabin, drop anchor, grow a tail, lay some cable, let the dogs out… you know, do a number  two.  

But I am not allowed. Not for six months now.  And, one day, in the near future, it just ain’t going to be pretty. I have Hepburn Shire Council to blame.  Last year I diligently jumped through hoops, made my way through obstacles and asked “how high, sir?” so HSC would allow me to turn one bit of land into two.  

One of the headscratchers was a water garden,  pictured, which was insisted on by one of the many officers who float in and out of  employment in the hallowed halls of HSC’s planning office.  

But it’s not entirely true that we had to install said water garden, we were, in fact,  given a choice. The first was to install a water garden which is a soak pit for the tank  overflow, if any.

Historically the overflow had been making its way out to large gutters  in the main street of Glenlyon for more than 150 years.  

The second was to put $5000 into the council coffers. I kid you not. The garden  was obviously the cheaper option but even if it wasn’t I would have rather paid  $10,000 for the garden than donated to the council’s Christmas party.  

But back to my toilet tantrum.  Part of the deal was to close off my septic pit, one that never gave any trouble and  was in perfect working order. But I am for tweaking things especially when it comes  to environmental issues.  

So, I dropped a further $14,000 on a new fandangled septic system in September  last year which the good people from Ballan Plumbing installed in a day with little  interruption.

The paperwork was quickly expedited to the body that made me install  the thing in the first place, yes, HSC, along with a command that we don’t use the  toilet until they sign off on it.  That was in September and it is now March. A long wait for a long drop. WTF.  

Meanwhile, the latest big council news is that HSC are asking for more rate  money, in fact a 10 per cent hike from all ratepayers. But I have to pose a question – if we hand over more money to HSC will anything change?

Ten per cent is a lot of  extra money to find and I am sure they need it, but so do I.  I am not sure what the alternative is to handing over the money because I can’t  see another council absorbing our debt and issues. Who would want that? Macedon  Ranges? Mt Alexander?

So, what happens if the HSC can no longer afford to keep  the lights on and no neighbouring council wants to pick us up?

Would the state  government have to step in and find commissioners to get us back in the black?

And how did all this start? Well, it is no secret that the Inspectorate report has  been leaked all over Facebook by “Council Watch” and most of the answers are there.  

We have had it in our possession for a couple of years but given some of the  litigious players in the report and a sense of self-preservation for our small newspaper  we haven’t been able to release it into the public domain.  

As we always said it is a very interesting read. And I am sure that a lot of the  planning criteria was fast-tracked. I bet they didn’t have to install a water garden or  wait six months to go for a poo.  If you see me around, be kind and don’t give me the shits.  Won’t be pretty, rant over….  

Regular readers of my rhetoric will  know that I have been in a battle with Hepburn Shire Council over my subdivision that has taken around three years. (You may have read my latest rant in the last edition.)  

But it transpires that all you need is a newspaper for a soapbox and you can get a bit done around the place. With the final bits of sign-off emerging before the ink had dried on our last newspaper – the power of the press.  

Speaking of press and advertising, puffery is a legal term used when advertisers say something about their product that’s immeasurable; it can’t be about a measurable fact.  

For example, a business can say they are one of the most respected in the world or they have the best steak that money can buy – this cannot be measured due to the number of contingencies in the statement.  

However, if a business misrepresents itself by saying they serve the cheapest steak in the district (and it’s not) or an accommodation provider shows a photo of a view that is clearly not obtained from the lounge room, this becomes illegal puffery.

You are welcome.  

My tale about the wrong kind of puffery begins on last week’s post-Christmas family holiday in the sleepy New Zealand hamlet of Kaikoura, now pronounced Kaikouda, which means to eat crayfish. Which is one of the many activities this place provides, with its 2800-metre mountains only a couple of kilometres from the sea and the sea bottom plunging to below 300 metres only a mile or so offshore.

This place is spectacular and requires no puffery.  

In 2016 an earthquake struck the town, two people died and it was estimated that the seabed rose as much as three metres, forever changing the landscape.  

A lot of the houses were written off and a lot more owners were given money to repair their homes by the government. And there are some amazing residences.  

Unfortunately, the house that we picked for our small break which talked of beautiful bay views and an amazing location wasn’t one of them. It was the filled-in bottom half of a house tucked down a street with no views and when the owners moved around upstairs it felt like the ceiling was going to collapse.

And the creaking!  It was so bad that we felt that had an earthquake hit that weekend we would end up in a pile of rubble as the house collapsed on top of us.  

I asked the owner for a refund based simply on the noise, we only stayed there three of our seven nights, and she said her hands were tied, so we are now in an arm wrestle with Airbnb because apparently, we are covered by AirCover, an insurance policy they offer.  

Their first offer of support we have already refused. A refund of $100 against the $1600 we had already dropped on the place.  As we do, we’ll keep pushing for a better result. Let you know how that goes.  

Puffery rant over…  

This issue’s rant has two non-segued bits to it. I just wasn’t feeling clever enough to link them after witnessing that buffoon’s comments about clearing out the Gaza Strip and turning it into a resort. FFS.

Before the election I did write that it was on the cards as his son-in-law had been in Gaza measuring it up for renovation. But I can’t believe he actually announced it to the world in front of what looked like a very surprised Yahoo (hello World War III).

In his first little while of being in office his trade tariff wars against Canada and Mexico have been dropped in the time it took to spell fentanyl trafficking.  And a big FU tariff to China was met with an arrogant “you need us more than we need you” FU tariff back from China.

Now Trump has signed an executive order banning trans athletes from women’s sports – what a guy.

This stuff would be hilarious if it wasn’t keeping me up in the middle of the night.  And here is part two, and if a segue could possibly be drawn, it would be the juxtaposition of speed in terms of getting stuff done.

I do prefer methodical law-making but around three years ago I started on my journey of baffling bureaucracy with the Hepburn Shire Council’s planning department.  

I only wanted to realise a bit of value in my home of 20 years by subdividing a portion off the side. I live in a township zone, with no overlays, BAL ratings and am nowhere near a watercourse. I watch as homes spring up around me, some almost  afloat on the watercourse that leads into the Loddon River, and still I wait.

I have made the appropriate recommended changes to my abutting block where our house is, including the installation of a strange water garden, which was my choice. Well actually I was given an ultimatum for either a water garden for the gutter water to overflow into or $5000 donation to HSC.  

I also installed a new $14,000 septic system, and still I wait.  Lately I have been on the phone every other day with my new HSC friend,  Andrew. A great bloke who seems to have a “get it done” attitude and who even  managed to get me an address for the block. Thanks for that part.  But still I wait.  

The power has long ago been located to the boundary of the block, a driveway has been put in and a fence erected on the surveyor’s marks, but still I wait.  

I have currently dropped somewhere north of 70K on bureaucracy. I have always owned the land, nothing has visibly changed except for my bank  balance, and still I wait.  

I am a very patient guy who cuts most people a break, but how much longer can this drag on?  Waiting rant over. But still I wait.  

(Ed’s note: I can confirm that Kyle was on hold today for over 20 minutes after  being asked to wait while a planner went searching for our file. I also recall reading somewhere that HSC once provided a building permit over a weekend. Three years does seem a tad  long. Even if you were into tantric…)  

Mostly I charge my Tesla at home with a normal 10-amp plug, which means I  wake up in the morning with a full tank. That way I am ready to traverse the plethora of potholes we refer to as roads around the Hepburn Shire.  

But I got caught short a little the other day and found myself at the Daylesford Town Hall’s charger. I guess I should have picked up on the clue, which was the spider webs around the handle of the charger, meaning no one had been there for  a while.

It clearly wasn’t working and on further investigation it had been dead the whole time, well before Christmas right through to mid-January.  

While parked in the non-operational charging bay I noticed that out from under the barrier around the Town Hall renovations white liquid with paint flakes was pouring all over the footpath and flowing into the drains.

It was clearly coming from the works behind the screen and my guess was they were water blasting the paint off.  

And although on mere battery fumes I thought it my civic duty to report it to the council. To  council’s credit the fix was almost immediate, in the form of a guy with a hose blasting away the  evidence into the drains. WTF…  

Now the only other charger in the immediate area is at the Hepburn Mineral Springs Reserve,  which has two charging stalls but only one fitting suitable for a Tesla. So I limped along, by this time on four per cent battery capacity.

Luckily, a fellow  who had just plugged in and was about to enjoy a two-hour treatment at the Bathhouse, gave me his spot. Thank you kind sir.  

I bought the Tesla before Elon turned into even a bigger wanker than he was by  joining Trump and making a Nazi salute at the president’s inauguration last Monday.  

But I do think there is noticeably a lot more electric and hybrid cars on the road. In fact, over 120,000 EVs or non-ICE (internal combustion engine) cars were purchased  by Australians last year.  

Surely it’s time to do a bit better around the Hepburn Shire, where even in terms of tourists trying to come for a holiday, range anxiety is a huge issue.  

We have the land and I am sure there are a lot of grants around; besides tourism is a huge economic driver and our local economy is flailing.

For those in the world of EVs, charging is everything, destination charges such as the 50 amp at the bathhouse or the one in the main street of Daylesford (which doesn’t even rate a mention on the  Plugshare app) are okay if you are having a bit of lunch and you plan to be at a place for two to three hours.  

But we need a bank of serious superchargers somewhere in the Hepburn Shire,  ones that deliver 250–500 watts for a full charge in 20 minutes.  

We need this infrastructure not only so we can embrace the change to electric  and give locals choice as to what cars they have. We also need this infrastructure to  literally drive tourists up here.

I feel like all the amazing work that has been done by local businesses and various tourist affiliations over the years to create our village destinations will go to waste if we don’t keep up. EV rant over…  

Don’t you hate sentences that start with I’m not a — but,…They are often followed with things like I’m not a racist but, or I’m not homophobic but.  

Well, if you do, please don’t read any further because I’m not a conspiracy theorist but hearing the news about Trumpy and his sidekick Elon trying to take over their bit of the world has me worried. So read on to try and understand my deluded  conspiracy theory if you’re that way inclined.  

It is no secret that Trump, Putin and old mate Kim Jong Un, the Supreme Leader of North Korea, are chums. Putin recently delivered a gift to Kim, Russia’s version of a bulletproof limo a couple of weeks ago.

The two bandits could be seen laughing and cajoling as they cruised the countryside of the peninsula, probably running over the beggars as they pushed it through its paces.  

So that makes a foursome with Trump, Elon, Kim and Putin, and as they say in the theatre, there’s no show without Punch, and for me Punch is Xi Jinping, China’s top dog.

Then throw in Israel’s Benjamin Netanyahu who has just demolished the  Gaza Strip and killed a fair portion of the population, so it’s now ripe for tourist resort development, and that makes five.  

My theory is that this bunch of misfits, who would look equally at home in the front bar of the Star Wars movie, are the most powerful dudes in the world.

It is my  concept that behind closed doors the horse trading began a long time ago.  I have never heard this sort of direct rhetoric in politics before, particularly from America, where Trump is talking about taking over Greenland, Canada and taking back the Panama Canal.  

Canada’s prime minister has just quit, almost as if he wasn’t up for the fight. And Mark Zuckerberg has dismissed the fact checkers from Facebook. Again, getting ready for some political moves that seem to be afoot or just getting on the good side of Trump.  

South Korea’s politics are in a mess, so Trump only has to withdraw his 30,000 troops from the demilitarized zone for that little applecart to tip over.  

And what’s next? Russia getting the green light to take over Ukraine I suppose,  which has large reserves of titanium, lithium, beryllium, uranium, iron ore,  manganese and coal.

The first four of these elements are essential for making nuclear and other weapons. Then what happens with China, which has bases around the Antarctic to our south and plenty of friendly ports to our north, courtesy of years of buyoffs?

First it will be Taiwan, then a hop, skip and jump to the land down under and there wouldn’t be a damn thing we could do about it with our limited military resources.

Now this is just a theory from my overactive imagination so don’t hop on a jet to New Zealand yet. But there are some facts that underpin my deliberations, and these set out the next few years as incredibly interesting and historic and maybe a little unsettling.  I told you not to read it, rant  over…  

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…