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…

What a weird world we live in. A couple of issues ago I wrote my column about mushrooms and how I would avoid scavenging them and stick to the greengrocer. And I don’t know what happened over at Clunes, but it is such an unfortunate situation that will impact on the lives of so many for so long.

Speaking of food or fresh food and in particular “The Fresh Food People”, Woolworths boss Brad Banducci was threatened with a contempt charge in a fiery Senate inquiry hearing recently.

I did watch the news program which was a bit theatrical from chair Nick McKim who took issue with the CEO’s refusal to disclose his company’s return on equity. I guess with the cameras around it was his time to show who had a big stick.

As it turns out the contempt charge, if he had have been charged, was six months’ jail time or a $5000 fine. I am sure ‘old mate’ who takes home $10.6 million in salary was quaking in his boots at the thought of the fine.

I am pretty confident just like the many inquiries that have gone before this current one, little to no action will happen at our (the customers), end of things. A bit of an apology and some head-down, bum up behaviour will be called for, before they get back to business as usual.

It’s like the whole petrol price rise débâcle that usually happens before a long weekend. That toothless tiger of an organisation, the ACCC, gets involved and really gets the petrol companies on the ropes, right?

The thing is that the ACCC’s parent is the Department of Treasury, which enjoys the spoils of our petrol consumption at an excise rate increase from 48.8 cents per litre which has just gone up to 49.6 cents per litre. So why would they bite the hand that throws the sausages?

And have you ever heard of surge pricing? This is a legal practice that enables companies such as airlines to put up prices when they are busy.

Imagine when we at TL HQ brought out that 104-page whopper of a paper in early February if we could have invoked surge pricing. Our advertisers would have laughed us out the door. We are local and real human beings whereas surge pricing is fabulous for the faceless AI bots that serve the mainframes of the airline computers.

And we go full circle to another grocery store, Blake Family Grocers. Daylesford’s small specialty grocery store going about its own business. The management team have long since decided to go cash free and what an uproar from the great unwashed.

Online diatribe like “they have to take cash it’s legal tender” were floating about. Well, no they don’t, they don’t have to take your cash or serve you if you’re being a dickhead, it is their business how they conduct their business and if you don’t like it, go somewhere else.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to see cash remain and I don’t want the bastards knowing everything, and I still do operate personally with cash albeit a bit less since the pandemic.

But you can’t tell a business how to run its business. You can leave feedback and advice, but a business is just that, a business not a community service.

For example, here at TL HQ we have had many suggestions on how to run the show over the years. And we have developed our business from the ground up taking on some suggestions and ignoring others, but the one rule we always invoke and is the only suggestion I have for other businesses, is the “no arsehole rule”.

These folks are painful, take up too much energy and will hassle you when it’s time to pay the ferryman – even when they are at the other side.

No arsehole rant over…

Japan is a country of juxtapositions. A Fuji photo booth sitting next to a plethora of vending machines offering porn magazines, smokes and booze in the middle of a rice paddy with a handful of workers and nobody else around sums it up for me.

My first interaction with the Japanese folk was as a wee boy of four out to sea with my dad and we happened upon a box-netting vessel just off the northern coast of New Zealand.

This led to some high seas swapsies with knives, food and ice. And when we arrived home Mum had to try to interpret how to cook a “Boil in the Bag” meal. This technology hadn’t made its way to NZ in the early seventies and we marvelled as she tipped the hot noodles on the plate. I must admit it was probably my first encounter with a noodle.

My next rendezvous with the culture was during the late eighties, this time as skipper selling to the Japanese market, making a killing and entertaining a bunch of Japanese for a weekend.

These fellas came over to see how we caught the fish and instruct us on how they liked to receive the fish. But the lessons were short and we mainly showed them the intricate secrets of the inside of the Houhora Tavern.

When I met Donna, a declared Japanophile, in the nineties, I went to the travel agent to enquire and pique my interest on the Land of the Rising Sun, but they had nothing, not even a brochure to give me.

So, I did my first of 10 or so trips to Japan in 2003 and it was a different country then. I stood head and shoulders above the crowd and one little fella yelled to his mother while pointing at me “nan da are”, which loosely translated means “WTF is that”.

She hurried him away from the foreigner.

At first I was too afraid to go anywhere without Donna as it all looked the same, and in those times they spoke very little English. My language skills were also limited – I spoke enough Japanese to order a beer and then a few pints later, find the toilet.

But the further into the sake we got the more we connected with the locals, coupled with a riveting karaoke rendition of Danny Boy which somehow bought a bit of praise and respect.

In that short amount of time since 2003 things have changed, Google Translate ensures a relatively smooth interaction. Not like when I asked a rather surprised massage therapist to be my wife for an hour. All I wanted was to send my wife down in an hour – for a massage.

The kids have grown a lot taller on average and it seems that half the population of Australia is over there at any one time, so foreigners aren’t such a mystery. But it is still a special place in my heart.

We leave the big cities to the tourists and head to the country where not a lot of foreigners have found our little city of Matsuyama.

The culture certainly hasn’t changed a lot, the bars are still a fabulous way of engaging with the locals. I have even found one bar that only allows one patron in at a time – a fair dinkum cardboard and wood box that the dude sets up every night.

And cherry blossom viewing is amazing. If you were to place 100,000 people into a park, ply them with alcohol for an entire day in Australia there would be trouble.

But over there, no worries. There is no disrespect or fighting and harmony is all around as you look for the perfect blossom.

I am now a Japanophile rant over…

Fun fact. Kara means empty and oke is short for orchestra. So karaoke is empty music, or music without words. Te means hand. Karate. Lesson over.

Warning: The first three paragraphs of this editorial will probably put you to sleep!

Hepburn Shire Council has seven councillors elected every four years by the community to represent them on local public issues. They represent five wards. Birch and Creswick wards each have two councillors while Cameron, Coliban and Holcombe wards each have one councillor.

That was until the Minister for Local Government announced a new electoral structure for Hepburn Shire. The extensive report, found down the back of the Google where the elephants go to die, reveals a panel held an online public hearing for those wishing to speak about their response submission at 10am on Wednesday, April 26, last year.

Now, maybe I didn’t want to get involved or maybe I like to keep things the way they are, with an ‘if it ain’t broke’ kind of attitude, but for whatever reason it slipped my radar, unlike the Hepburn Shire locals who had their say, including the 19 preliminary submitters.

And then there were the 34 response submitters and don’t forget the three people who spoke at the public hearing. Follow the QR code below and checkout the riveting argy-bargy on page 24 of the document.

(But this is what I love about our region, we punch above our weight in folks trying for continuous improvement. To this matter I must admit I was asleep at the wheel while true public sentiment helped to shape our future.)

Now my nap at the helm is because it is boring, and after many punches in the gut I feel powerless, which makes me no longer give a good God damn. I do appreciate the folks who have taken an interest in the situation, as it has relieved me of my civic duty in doing the same.

But honestly, will it ensure my bloody bin gets picked up on schedule so I don’t have to take my rubbish and recyclables to the tip every other bin day? Or will it help fund the constant wheel balances from the potholes, or my skyrocketing rates bill?

I think not and at the end of the day I believe the council is there to provide the municipal services of roads, rates and rubbish. The councillors roles are to air out their respective community’s interests, and draw the attention of the council to those interests as a body through a democratic vote.

In plain speak it’s just meant to be a few well-meaning folks spotlighting community issues for the council to attend to and those folks get a little bit of coin for their troubles. A very little bit.

A big reason for my fogginess and not giving a toss attitude when it comes to HSC matters is that I can’t get past the last few years of financial blunders.

We must have some hideous sized holes in the books from things like the Daylesford Rex débâcle and now the rehoming of HSC staff to God knows where for 18 months or more so the town hall can be tidied up and maybe turned into a hub. And this was what The Rex project was meant to be in the first place.

There doesn’t seem to be any accountability because the faces have changed, people have moved on and the memory of the community gets dulled by time. My noodle scratching and propensity to run into the streets in my underwear and yell “I give up” goes even deeper.

After almost two and a half years I have managed to secure a planning permit to lop off a bit of land.

The property in question is a flat piece of land with zero substantial overlays in a township zone and the tiny subdivision was given the green light ages ago by Goulburn Murry Water. No wonder I have given up.

Just do the job rant over…

By the time you read this the feathers will have settled, the pink boas put away to live another day and the glitter swept from the floor.

My prudish inner self does have to ask about the dudes dressed as dogs in the parade though, I think they were maybe just a couple of chums who got mixed up in the ChillOut vibe. And after all each to their own, right?

I have seen those guys before in other ChillOut parades but have never gotten as close, almost close enough to get bitten. For now I’ll park that image way down the back of my mind where the elephants go to die.

Speaking of vibes and jarring segues, there is definitely an autumn vibe in the air, granted it’s still a bit hot to pay it too much attention, but the apples are definitely ripening on the tree.

Shortly the mushrooms will be out, and the foragers foraging, but not me. After last year’s deadly Leongatha lunch the only place I will be prospecting for non hallucinogenic fungi is Tonnas – where there is a fabulous range all sorted for you and grown in places with humidity control, not in the wild.

A lot of our local eateries like to put these naturally unearthed meals on the menu, which up until last year seemed like a fabulous nostalgic notion of nosh, but it’s no thanks from me.

I like my grub to be rummaged up the old-fashioned way, straight from a quality controlled factory just the way the good Lord intended. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against the nudity of food and I love the thought of kindly killed meats and naturally grown fruit and vegetables from the paddock to the plate.

However, when it comes to the subject of fungus the deadly ones look a little too similar to the yummy ones and there are not many people that I would trust to know the difference. Except for maybe our own Central Highlands fungi fanatic Alison Pouliot, who is not always on hand to pick my mushies.

But back to my autumn vibe. Some of the leaves have already started to turn on our trees and the harvest has started to make an appearance at our local markets.

I give the bird and spit in the general direction of Christmas and call this bit “the most wonderful time of the year”. In another month or so we will be able to burn our wood piles down the back of the yard while swilling red wine and gobbling down the last of the harvest offerings.

But for now, we are still in the thick of festival season, a plethora of culinary cuisine awaits our attentions and the days are still long.

Autumn vibe rant over…

I just wanted to throw a few numbers around.

4 website stories per day.

7 days per week.

10 locals employed.

11 years old this September.

108-page magazine.

300th issue.

17,000 unique website visitors per month.

And to all the corporate idiots who shouted from the rooftops “print is dead” as we started our fledgling magazine in 2013 with a rag-tag gang of volunteers – you just weren’t paying attention!

Numbers rant over…

I don’t need all the mod cons in my car. I have a little noise which comes from the passenger seat if I am about to run into danger, it normally squeaks “chout” an abbreviated “watch-out”.

Recently we have been looking at upgrading our ute and this is not a decision I take lightly as since the age of when I could afford it I have only procured new cars.

I never buy top of the range as I don’t see the value of something that I am going to flog to death once I drive it out of the showroom. And I only ever swap my cars after 10 plus years to get the most out of them. So now you can understand why it is such an important decision.

Since I was last in the market and settled on my Mitsubishi Triton, lots of things have changed in terms of cars’ technology and their shapes.

The market is teaming with SUVs which are a great invention for those of us who grunt when we get out of a low sedan, they ride well, don’t have the bounciness of a ute and we do like a good road trip.

The issue is that although they now come with air conditioning in the seats, (yes what an invention, no longer pulling your trousers out of your backside after a couple of hours on the road), they also come
with all the other whizzbangery.

There are lane wandering warnings, entertainment system controls that would have a professional film editor scratching their heads, and handling controls that change from sport to rough for those on the road that have the time to think about the road surface or even give a crap.

The roads around here would have you spinning that dial, hardening up the suspension to get through the potholes and back to sports mode for the odd bit of tarmac that hasn’t suffered the rigours of
the road trains.

But the one thing all the SUVs that I have looked at have in common are pretty homogenised bodies. My first car was a Morris 1100, it was a flat-looking thing that did its job.

In fact it was so flat the bigger 1800 version was nicknamed the “Land Crab”. Back in the eighties I would never have considered a new car, I always had the arse hanging out of my pants.

Besides, as a young seaman I spent a lot of my time on the water part of the earth, so a big investment didn’t make sense.

But back in those days we were spoilt for choice with the most vibrant cars to choose from including the American models, Australian Holdens and Fords and English cars like the Triumph and MG brands.

At one point in my life, once every week for around six months, I would go to the Auckland car auctions on a Wednesday night where my uncle and father divulged a few tricks and tips to buy the cars for a bargain.

Like crossing the spark plug leads to make the car run rough and putting off the other buyers. Or pouring a small spoonful of oil over the manifold so about the time the vehicle was presented for auction the manifold had heated up and smoke billowed from under the bonnet.

I would buy these cars for a bargain, quickly repair their newly discovered faults, drive the 200 kilometres to my hometown of Whangarei and make money at the Friday auctions.

A history I am not necessarily proud of, but it was colourful, and it was not like I was stealing things, it was just a way to get a bit more of a bargain.

Yes, on reflection it was bad behaviour.

Because of the boringness of the new car designs I have decided to hang on to my old ute, after all it runs nicely, has always been well maintained and I don’t need “whizzbangery” I have a Donna.

Without her observations and remarks, I would be running red lights, crashing into buildings and taking out the elderly. New car rant over…

(Ed’s note: Hmmm. Who has been in a car accident, or two? Kyle or me?)