Perspective from Down Under

2007-01-31T21:06:00.000+11:00

Stralyaday

We had a beautiful Australia Day in Melbourne. Twas 25°, nary a cloud in the sky and a perfect breeze blowing. I was driving along with the sunroof and all windows fully open soaking up the beauty of being Australian. The iPod blaring and me screeching along at the top of my lungs I was on the looking at lights to ensure no-one was suffering my best Kanye West, Lou Reed, Easy-E, or even Monty Burns ‘See my Vest’. To my utter amazement every single car had all their windows full up. It was too warm to be windows up, no air con so all these clowns are sitting in an absolutely freekin perfect climate; with their climate control on. On Australia Day facryinoutloud?

On Sunday I caught a great show 'Australia Day, My Way' hosted by the Australian comedian Akmal Seleh. He, like so many of us, was pondering what it meant to be Australian. One point Akmal made that I just loved was that Captain Cook discovered Australia despite the fact people were already living here? So by that logic Akmal’s Dad discovered Australia when they arrived from Egypt in 1974 writing in his journal ‘the natives are friendly’ – gold.

It seems at the moment if you’re not talking about the water crisis it’s what it is to be Australian? The term unAustralian has become my most disliked term in the political vernacular while the term multi-culturalism has been subverted by the term integration.

Later that Sunday I was watching the Australia Day awards on TEN where in a tacky piece of cross-promotion the TEN Australian Idol (who wasn’t actually Ozi when he won?) was sworn in by the PM before singing Tenterfield Saddler.

I don’t think I’d heard the oath before and I certainly have no memory of having taking it myself. That’s a bit peculiar isn’t it, immigrants have to agree but we get no say? So here it is:

As an Australian citizen,
* I affirm my loyalty to Australia and its people,
Whose democratic beliefs I share,
Whose rights and liberties I respect,
And whose laws I uphold and obey.
* Australian reaffirming start here

Shock horror; I got a little problem with that.
I’m totally loyal to Australia and its people (all of its people). I have unyielding democratic beliefs, not sure I share them with every Australia; no fan of the 2 party system. Whose rights and liberties I certainly do respect, just wish they hadn’t been eroded away. No biggies yet it’s really just semantics. Whose laws I uphold and obey, mmm. Obey I try as hard as the next bloke; uphold, not so sure. IE If I found a undocumented refugee child I would be jailed for contempt before I would give them up to be detained / jailed in the desert. So, nup, not upholding that. Illegal invasions of Iraq, well it’s hardly upholding a law more being complicit in the breaking of one, but no, not, sort of, upholding that.

This is my conclusion.
I love Australia, from the windswept coastline of the Great Ocean Road to the plains of central NSW, the unrelenting heat and fine red bull dust of the mid North to the humid rainforest of FNQ and everything in between.
I love Australians, not every single one of them, that's not possible. Barring politicians there is no group of people I dislike; just individuals. You can’t see a kangaroo, wombat, Sturt Desert Pea, giant magnetic ant hills, the opera house, the great barrier reef etc, etc, etc and not love Australia. Of course if driving around on perfect day with ones windows up all one would see is ones own small intestine, head up their arse tossers.

This government, previous and future governments, their leaders, members and policies are not Australia. It’s that silicone dust that gets into EVERYthing, the platypus, loving watching Cathy run but cringing when she speaks, roasts and hot puddings at Xmas in 40° heat, helping your mates in crisis and then cracking a tinny with them while BBQing the coat of arms. I love Australia.

After the Gurindji’s 8 year battle to get their land off Lord Vestey the indigenous rights activists Vincent Lingiari was too blind to see the paper work granting his people right to their ancestral land. Then Prime Minister Gough Whitlam picked up a handful of sand and poured it into Vincent’s. Great song by Paul Kelly and Kev Carmody “From little things big things grow” btw. A great gesture that sums up the Australia I love, it's the land, the flora, the fauna and all it's peoples.

I love Australia, every inch of it and every living thing that occupies every inch.
So I’m comfortable hating the war more and more everyday since the illegal invasion, love my Failure Accomplished bumper sticker, not guilty about rejoicing in the sacking of the Immigration Minister and am delighted to exercise my democratic right to question the value of being Australian if the government dobs its citizens into death sentences in Indonesia and leaves them to rot in Gitmo.

And I won’t be called unAustralian because of it.

2006-12-19T21:19:00.000+11:00

Bad Timing

I’ve been a regular listener of Democracy Now via podcast for about 12 months now, gottaluvya Amys & Juans. Prior to that, pre podcasting, I used to copy and paste transcripts to Word at lunchtime to read at home that night.
I feel lucky to have come across them during the lead up to the Iraq invasion. I used to have a flick around at lunchtime to world newspaper in the US / UK (in draft 1 I had named and linked to the newspapers but I'm too gutless – don’t want to be sued) and then english.aljazeera.net for balance. Without doubt I found Al Jazeera had the best ‘journalism’. Going to press conference and regurgitating verbatim a government official without question or investigation is not even a poor facsimile of journalism. The main stream UK press certainly didn’t instantly morph into unquestioning sycophantic propagandists as most of the US (and all Australian) mainstream media did... ranting now.

To paraphrase ‘the truth was out there’, just bloody hard to find as the mainstream media weren’t interested and various governments were trying to bury it. Democracy Now were / are a beacon of truth in a thick fog of ‘spin’. They do daily news headlines then generally topical interviews but occasionally have lectures from preeminent scholars; I recommend this one.

Another great thing about Democracy Now is that they have some great music breaks. Two songs in particular I had to get straight away were Buffy St Marie’s ‘Universal Soldier’ (not a Donovan fan) and Phil Ochs ‘I aint Marching Anymore’. Yep shoulda been a hippy.

Two observations.

I may be many things, arrogant, opinionated, a bit of lefty – but first I’m a capitalist. This war would be handsomely swelling the coffers of many protest singers of the sixties – gottaluv the irony in that. The very thing they are opposing is what introduced them to a new generation / market. I found Phil on YouTube and also Donovan doing Universal Soldier and there are comments like “My teenage son asked me for Best of Phil Ochs CD for...”, “I just bought...”. In part they need to thank Dubya for that – so it not just big oil and Haliburton that are reaping (raping?) it in :-)

The second observation is that I feel robbed for having been born in the early 70’s. My formative teenage years were in the 80’s, so I’m not responsible for my dress sense. I got a global recession for my 21^st then 11 years, and still suffering, of John bloody Howard. Goodonya.
During early teens I wanted to be born about 1935. If my parents could keep me alive through the end of the depression I would be 22 when Chevrolet released the ’57 Belair – mmmmmmm ’57 Belair – still freekin adore that car. That was the sole reason for wanting to be born in 1935; ah the innocence of youth.
Later, and still to this day, I’m became plain pissed I wasn’t part of the sixties. I got the antiauthoritarianism thang, organising ability, author of bad poetry, less than terrible orator, defiantly single and unlike Bill Clinton – did inhale. If I could compromise on personal hygiene, bit of stickler for a shower, I could have been the real deal man. Perhaps the long haired ‘Gerry Adams’ of a radical Australian militant group called the Cyan Koalas. OK not as tough as the Black Panthers but better than the Purple Platypus, the Eggpalnt Emus, the White Wombats, the Blue Bilbys? I'm on a role but I'll stop.
I look at the girls looking at Phil Ochs on youtube and am filled with envy. He’s was a pop star in the free lovin’ sixties about the time they invent the pill. I was a geek in the nothing eighties about the time they discover AIDS.
It's freekin wrong I tellsya!

Seasons greetings. Be safe.

2006-12-14T22:07:00.000+11:00

Talking the Talk

I presented to the Victorian Cognos User Group recently. That was fun, I hadn’t done a presentation to room full of strangers since my consulting days. I was followed by a BearingPoint guy showing off the fan-freekin-tastic ‘Google in a box’ enterprise search engine then a Cognos consultant previewing some new stuff so I had to be on the ball.

My first job out of school was at Harris Scarfe in Rundle Mall, Adelaide. For me saying ‘not a fan of school’ is like a vampire saying ‘not a fan of sunlight’; it was moi-da. I was doing my final year, hatin’ life, until just before the end of first term Dad relented by setting me a challenge to get a full time job in the short school holidays to win my emancipation. I’m sure D.O.D (dear old Dad) didn’t think I would pull it off but was kind enough to fully prepare me for my plight by telling me at length, on numerous occasions, how hard it is for unskilled youths without even a high school diploma let alone university degree to get ahead in life. Mum was on board from the start (A because she has that ‘unwavering support for everything her kids do’ thing going on, but also because living with Mum on school days she had to endure the bulk of my sincere unhappiness. D.O.D got me on the weekend so he didn’t wear the brunt but upon realising my unyielding commitment to getting out school he too got right on board. The great irony is that the privileged, old boy, blazer, pipe and a good port, rar–rar–rar thing I so deeply resented was solely responsible for getting me out. I jagged it because the HR Manager was an ‘old boy’ and the school put in a good word. They desperately wanted me out so I didn’t soil their precious university entry scores. I had mentally stopped school long before. For my year 11 final accounting exam I got 9% I think. One third of the exam was multiple choice and I ticked ‘a’ for all without reading the questions before leaving while most were still reading the instructions.

I swear dissent is genetic; I was probably contemptuous of the doctor that delivered me due his poncy title. ‘Doctor my arse I’ll call you Bob – champ.’ Even as a new born my intuition was right on; after whacking me on the arse in my first few seconds of life that sadist Bob came back and tried to cut my dick off a few days later. I was still recovering from the whole birth ordeal with my teeth all knocked out, stress causing alopecia, post traumatic stress disorder had me with the night terrors and I’d lost control of my bodily functions. There’s freekin’ Bob with the ‘letters in front his name’ that allow him to go my cock with a sharp instrument. I was 2 weeks old and already hated ‘the establishment’. To smart for Bob though, I got away with most of it. :-)

Over half my life later being an ‘old boy’ continues to have a few advantages when you least expect it but for me not enough to make worthy tolerating 4+ years of pompous twats; being a ‘current boy’ sucked. I can’t help but say there’s no Freudian slip in the preceding phrase despite the fact it was an Anglican boys school in the 1980’s :-) – yes you’ll need a shovel to get that low... Anyhoo, as Simon & Garfunkel said “My lack of education hasn’t hurt me none, I can read the writing on the walls.”

I started my short lived retail career in the Manchester Department, I know my crocheted doilies alright, but a combination of mutual dislike between myself and manager along with my youthful enthusiasm saw me ‘promoted’ to spruiker. The promotion was only in the social sense only as there was the “oh, I could never do that” factor. In hindsight it was probably then I learned the value of being seen within an organisation. If you’re standing at the bus stop and don’t hail the bus it won’t stop. You has gots-ta put you’re hand out and be noticed to gets yoself anywhere gerl-freen!

Even spruiking at Harris Scarfes has a pecking order. The basement entrance was poignantly the starting point; which held a dark significance. As a young fella who knew, so well I could have written a thesis on it, my lack of formal education would see me have to fight my way up from the ground floor; but the freekin basement!
After the basement the central ground floor point is the next stop in the dizzying career of a Harris Scarfe spruiker. That was the best place to be for mine as you were inside protected from the elements and it was the intersection for the escalators and lifts while also having the foot traffic between Grenfell St and Rundle Mall. Having the raging hormones of a 17 year old I feel no remorse in saying it was great place for a perve but it didn’t have the prestige of the Rundle Mall main enterance. Once there you had officially ‘made it’ in Harris Scarfe spruiking but with the melting heat of Adelaide summers and winter winds accelerating down the confines of the Mall, not to mention rain, I figured that wasn’t an important milestone in the grand plan for global domination (mwa ha ha). But that is the Harris Scarfe spruiking Mecca; from there the only place to go is freelance for the big bucks – Roger David, Zamels, Bunnings, K-Mart, game show voice overs, hosting the Oscar’s. That is the standard career trajectory according to the freelance spruikers I spoke to. :-)
I was soon swapped from the basement to the ground floor which suited us both as my colleague was happy to talk power tools in the basement all day, every day. I was happy because now I didn’t, and the ground floor had weekly specials so it was always changing. Plus the visually appeasing vantage point. I was occasionally backup for the ‘top job’ in case of illness and the like. T’wasn’t so bad as the make up and perfume counters are up front of the store, cause they smell nice and have pretty ‘Cosmetics Consultants’ so, there goes them hormones again, I didn’t mind going up there for a change. By the end the first day I had usually managed to have my inept advances rejected by the Lancome girl and the Max Factor girl leaving L’Oreal, Clinique and Estee Lauder girls for day 2 maybe stretching it to day 3 after which I was happy to get back to ‘ground floor - central’.
But I digress; the point is even though spruiking for some time every single morning getting those first words out was tough, full of self-consciousness no doubt exacerbated by those damn teenage hormones again. What is the good of those bloody horm...oh yeah :-)

It was just like that when giving the presentation, once I spat out the first coupe of sentences I got right into stride. I've been eating and breathing the subject matter for a couple of years now, did several timed rehearsals and created the presentation from scratch where cutting and pasting some stuff from internal pressys would have been easier. Preparation, people, preparation. There was a Simpsons reference for levity and the language had a business context with minimal 'geek-speak' so the beanies and Execs would understand (keep up) while throwing in a diagram or two for the techos.

I know it went well because all the Cognos folks made a point to tell me afterwards – yeah right. As another Cognos dude told me "What a great presentation..." I thinking what else would they say to me; the client’s representative? ‘Gee Davo thanks for your time and effort but you’re boring as bat shit and the presentation made no sense.’ I’m sure they were genuine because they are genuine, also others with no vested interest also complimented me and since had a number of requests for copies but it did have me wonder how they handle the inevitable woeful presentation.

Lucky for me half a lifetime ago I would spend my days tempting consumers to fill their kitchens with 5mm Copper based stainless steel cookery, warning them of the potential damage to furniture with hot tea pots on un-doilied tables, or even protecting their families in winter by offering flannelette sheet sets at 'amazing prices shoppers' so talking to strangers in a professional environment was second nature.

While the presentation had me reminiscing about Harris Scarfe I can assure you back then I never thought spruiking would be advantageous 18 years later while talking Corporate Performance Management at Fed Square in Melbourne.

Learn that at Uni!

2006-12-04T21:56:00.000+11:00

A Hard Sell

So the environment is (finally) a big problem; now it’s a polling issue. Welcome Johnny we’ve been waiting a decade so. NB hate to be the one break it to you but Iraq ain’t going that swimmingly – look forward to that becoming a polling issue so you can get your brush cut eyebrow, children overboard lying, interest rate advertising obfuscating, cole commission terms of reference restricting, baboon arse fugly head out of the sand on that one too.

But I’m not going to espouse a diatribe on what the federal government isn’t going to do a decade too late on the environment as that’s far too easy. I’ll leave that to others; I choose the hard sell.

Speed limits are dangerous and killing the environments. Yes it sounds ridiculous but there is undeniable science behind that seemingly absurd statement.
I live on a corner block. If I pull out and go left I’m hit a 40kph zone that lasts a few hundred metres and then goes 50 and a ‘cula hun’ed’ later goes 60. If I pull out right I’m in a 50kph zone that turns into a 60 zone at the T section a few hun’ed metres up. I drive 11kms to work and without exaggerating, I’ve counted, and there are 50 billion different speed zones. Apart from the obvious inherent danger in always glancing at the speedo due to the proliferation of speed cameras (can’t play pokies on the way to dropping the kids at school and the gov’s got make a buck somehow) plus constantly watching for speed signs the ridiculous number of speed changes is killing our environment.
Cars are geared to be most efficient around common speeds such as 60, 80 and 100kph. My manual car cruises at 60 in 4th at about 2000Rpm using about 6.5 litres per hundred kilometres (l/100) according to the on board computer. At 40kph the car is in 3rd gear at a slightly higher RPM and the slower speeds equates to about 9.2l/100k. Its simple maths, using the same RPM at lower speeds for the same distance will result in higher fuel consumption. Here is a brilliant real life example. My previous 5.7 litre manual sports ute with massive power gorged on fuel at the rate of about 18l/100k around town. But in 6th at 100kph it was geared to rev at about 1600 giving about 6.7l/100k. At 100kph that’s exactly the same as my current 3.0 litre manual with good power that does about 12l/100k (one third less) around town. It’s because the smaller engine needs more revs to be comfortable so it is geared to be doing about 2400RPM at 100kph.
In addition to using more fuel maintaining a lower speed we take a second slice of the fuel consumption cake again when accelerating from a lower speed zone to a higher - constantly. Then you add the extra wear and tear on the gearbox, brakes, tyres with all the, faster, slower, slower, faster - geesh! I’ll probably require a left knee reconstruction and or hip replacement at 65 not 67 with all these extra clutch actuations. With the danger, the environment, my joints society can’t bare the cost!
Plus, really drawing the long straw here, brake dust is dirty and very abrasive which ends up on the roads from all the braking from one speed to another goes into drains and kills the dolphins. I’ve always said my driving style is green. By braking less for corners and round-abouts I don’t have to accelerate out of the corner saving fuel and I don’t kill dolphins with brake dust. Why don’t we just go out and buy a cheap, imported, no name brand of canned flipper, oh I mean tuna. Is that too far? Excessive changes in speed limits KILLS DOLPHINS! (I told you it was going to be a stretch)

Back on a more serious note in Queensland or maybe New South Wales outback you would be into a 100kph and you would get a sign ’50 ahead’, slow down to 50 – Sir Wheat. Similar at the other end; you’d be in the 50 zone and get a 100 sign, none of this confusing 100 to 80, then 60, then 50 at both ends. Being the cynical dissident I can’t help but think it’s all part of a ‘cunning and devious plan’ to confuse us in order to raise speed camera revenue. On my recent road trip I’d found I was always doing something leaving a town; butting out a cigarette, closing the windows & sunroof while turning the air back on, scoffing deep fried something, adjusting my, um, ‘make up’, interrogating the GPS, all of the above - what ever. Up north if you past a speed sign you knew it was 100 no questions asked. Down south if you cruise past speed sign and don’t see it you have no idea. I missed one and was cruising at 80 looking for the hun’ed sign until a truck came barrelling up behind me so I guessed it must have been 100. To add to my cynicism they will wack in an 80 and then half a kay down the road you see another sign and it’s... another freekin’ 80. Surely they’re taking the piss, they just want you start building up for 100, tricked ya it’s an 80, click – thanks for visiting Victoria that’ll be a cupla hun’ed – would you like to pay the pokies while you’re here. Pricks – I don’t (perhaps selectively) remember a 100 sign then another 100 sign a minute later. Too bad you missed it, you can sit at 80 until a semi trailer driver that’s been awake for 83 hours who’s filled with more psuedo ephedrine than a ward of flu sufferers catches up and places his bullbar on the rear parcel shelf of your family car – Sir Funkin Wheat.

I’m not going to mention speed limits coming down while braking performance and electronic dynamic safety systems have improved exponentially in the same period. I won’t harp on about driver education being the only and obvious answer to reducing the road toll. I don’t even advocate increasing speed limits I just think the excessive changes in speed limits as implemented in southern states are confusing, dangerous and despite conventional thoughts to the contrary increases environmental damage.

2006-12-01T23:26:00.000+11:00

Lament the Cement

In the December issue of WHEELS magazine letter of the month was a consumer talking up the value of run flat tyres. If someone tries to talk up run flats to me at first I wouldn’t say a word, as “Ppfftt” isn’t a word. Once my eyes finished rolling I would ask them what BMW dealership they work for. BMW have deleted the spare tyre from much of their range in favour of run flats. The letter showed me that for some cars run flats may actually be more than rort to sell more tyres.

However I have a 130i M-Sport with the 18” wheel option. It is fitted with Eagle NCT 5’s which are likely a very good touring tyre given a larger profile as they are fitted standard to the Chrysler Voyager and Peugeot 406 estate. This, no doubt, being the first and only time Chrysler Voyager, Peugeot 406 Estate and BMW 130i M-Sport are mentioned in the same sentence should be proof enough they shouldn’t wear the same shoes. I can confirm that with the strongest conviction. The real crime is they run a unique, from the research I’ve done, 205/45/18 up front so I’m stuck with them. I jest that the tyres on my car aren’t new technology and they weren’t invented by Firestone or Bridgestone but Flintstone. They afford a similar level of ride quality and grip as a single uneven rock cylinder a’la the ‘Flintstone-mobile’. (How did that car turn?:-) By not fitting them to their own ‘M’ cars BMW admit run flats aren’t for performance cars. Again something I can completely confirm.

For all the alleged value of these things as I drove from my home in Melbourne to the Gold Coast for Indy this year I was very concerned that if I had a flat Back’o’Bourke I would have to crawl to the nearest town, given the firm sports suspension and large rims I wouldn’t be hopping along at 80kph on a B road - as the marketers would tell you. I would likely have to shack up in the local pub for a number of days while the 205/45/18 was ordered in from who knows where. So great if you’re close to home or in the urban density of Europe but at the song says “...this is Au-stralER”.
Further, and this could be my bias, but I feel getting a flat tyre has become a whole lot more dangerous since the advent of the run flats. There seems to be push towards the perception a flat tyre is guaranteed to result in a Canyonero-esque multiple barrel roll finishing in a disproportionate flame ball. With a 40, 50 and 110kph limits in Australia combined with the low profile tyres of modern cars that would be fitted with run flats what is this danger of a flaty, I’ve been lucky enough to survive a few?

It was refreshing to see someone actually say something positive about run flats and I now accept they may have a place. Just not on my 130i or any other car I’ll own in the foreseeable future for both the road trips I enjoy and the performance I demand. Run flat or not it’s such a shame that so much of the great work BMW did making the 130i M-Sport a brilliant car is negated by the NCT5's tyres that are simply totally out classed by the car’s capability.
Good for the BMW engineers ego, really bad for upholding the 'Ultimate Driving Experience' sticker that stares at me while I'll understeer into another corner while a taxi casually drives around me on the outside (OK there maybe a bit of 'poetic license' there) and traction control shuts everything down on exit. The cement I lament (said tyres) brings the myriad of safety systems in so early you couldn't freak out Grand Ma on the way to Xmas lunch. Seriously man, at least you could have some fun battling the understeer with the hand brake if you took her 4 cylinder Camry.

2006-11-28T20:46:00.000+11:00

Get it out and get it Dirty
Driving from my home in Melbourne to the Queensland Gold Coast for Indy gave me an opportunity to test out my 130i’s touring abilities. The first difference from my previous cars was the departure checklist which involved checking wiper fluid, tyre pressures and pressing systems check using the expansive on board computer. Then it is simply a matter of foot on clutch, starter button, go. Previously, with my premium brand Australian performance car, I would not leave before checking the oil and radiator levels whilst loading up with 5 litres of Mobil’s finest and a spare 1.5 litres of water; just in case.
For me one the joys of driving long distances is the ability to unashamedly assume the diet of Homer Simpson en route. I like to use Homer’s paper bag test. Put the food in a paper bag and if the grease in the food hasn’t made the paper bag transparent in 15 minutes it’s not fit for consumption. In five days on the road I consumed more Mc Breakfasts’ than I had in the previous five years.
Keeping in mind all the signs telling me to stop every two hours I happen upon golden arches in Seymour just about 10 o’clock. The 130i comes standard with the M-Sport pack in Australia which, among other things, includes the excellent BMW sports seats with width adjustment and electric lumbar support. The firm suspension oscillates between kidney jolting on country B roads and a gift from heaven on smooth twisty bits, a compromise I am happy with. The firm suspension is accentuated by the run flat tyres fitted for which I have nothing but contempt. More, much more on run flats in a later blog.

On the 110kph zones in sixth gear the engine is turning over at about 2,700rpm. With the new generation light weight magnesium alloy 6 cylinder engine the on board computer give a reading of about 6.5 litres per 100kms in ‘instant mode’ on flat ground. This equates to a touring range of well over 500kms on the open road and has the potential to severely limit my ability gorge myself on truck stop fare.
Having left home with a full tank my first fuel stop was Narrandera in southern NSW.
Like so much of Australia this is well and truly drought country. City folk like me mightn’t notice the sea of brown, it’s actually blond really, in the height of spring but you can’t help but notice every roadside dam has but a few inches of mud in the bottom if anything at all.

It was onwards to Dubbo for the first overnight stop of the trip. Despite the drought it is a beautiful drive through heart of farming country. The large towns like West Wylong have the same beautiful character of the smaller towns with cool names like Bundaburrah or Daroobalgie. Forbes is a nice place but...

...lots of Bogans. I really wanted to go and see if there was actually a Bogan Gate Shopping Centre because that would be just fantastic (images of Kate & Kim come flooding) but this was the longest day on the road so I pushed on. Heading from Forbes to Parkes the radio telescope from the movie ‘The Dish’ that played such an important roll in the first moon landing was clearly visible from the highway. Facing the road with the elevation slightly down so as to show passers by the whole face of the dish it seemed to have a quite dignity as I drove past at dusk; like it knew it place in history but didn’t want to brag. It was dark well before I made Dubbo which afforded the opportunity to test out the fog lamps and Bi-Xenon headlamps. In the city passengers and people exterior to the car comment on how ‘white’ the Xenon light is. Out in the country the fog lights add quite a bit angle which is good for wildlife spotting and the bi-xenon high beam is something to behold only comparable to a bank of driving lights you might see on trucks out here. It really does light up the world in front of you but in a noticeably concentrated beam where conventional high beam seems to spread out more making it less effective.

Leaving Dubbo about 8am I head off towards another place with a great name, Coonabarabran, through the country music capital Tamworth onto Armidale where I turn off towards the second night stop in Coffs Harbour. Heading east the green starts to come back through a clutch of national parks starting at Woolomombi continuing all the way to the coast.
It’s through some of these roads that m-sport suspension pack, the 18” M alloys, rear wheel drive and the 50/50 weight balance come into their own. To achieve the balance they have gone to the detail of putting the battery where the spare wheel would be pretty much directly over the diff.
Whilst the traffic was light the closer I got to the coast the thicker the caravans and motor homes became. With 195kw and 290Nm available in a relatively small car means the bowling brigade and their caravans could be easily dispatched without bothering the gearbox if you please. However I remember a journalist writing that every motoring enthusiast should drive through a tunnel in third gear in an M3 with the windows down. I am not fooling myself the 130i is no M3 but with a short exhaust due to the size of the car it does have a nice note especially when DTC has been activated for the sharper throttle response to ensure a big ‘blip’ for the downshift. Generally while coming up behind and ensuring a safe overtaking distance would necessitate a change from 6th to 5th gear. Then it’s just pick your spot; big blip 5th to 3rd, indicate, accelerate and enjoy the sound. Let’s face it that’s why you buy a 130 over a 120 or 118, or at least that’s why I did. Within seconds the sun chasers are well in the distance and you find yourself applying the brakes while slipping it in 4th from a safe 6500 change as you’re hitting 140+. This is certainly where the efficiency of the dual VANOS II variable cams system comes to light. My previous car had 285Kw and 520Nm, numbers very similar to an E46 M5, yet the 130i would be beaten but not be embarrassed by it in 3rd gear roll ons. In a recent comparison between the 130i, RX-8, and 350z the 130i did very well in roll on with the more powerful 350z and the RX-8 was back there somewhere and that’s simply down to engine efficiency and good gearing.

Day 2 wasn’t overly long so a scenic route into Coffs seemed appropriate. Stopping for a break a plague pointed out this is point where the flora turns from bushland to rain forest. It is amazing the little tit bits of information you find at these rest areas and I doubt I would have noticed the changes had I not read the sign. There was about 30kms of solid 25, 35 and 45 corners dropping down in Coffs Harbour which is a great way to end a day on road and any misgivings about the firm ride become implausible.
I was booked in to a place right on the coast about 7kms north of Coffs by about 4.30 in the afternoon. After 2 solid days of driving a combination of the brillo seats, dual climate control, fully adjustable multi function m-sport steering wheel and i-pod connection plus my enthusiasm for well deserved holiday saw me fresh as daisy. I took lovely stroll along the beach and had a nice big stretch to wake up some of the muscles that had been immobile for a while. Returning to the room there were colourful lizards crossing my path, frogs a crocking, birds a tweeting, 22 degrees at 6pm and pretty easy to see why some of the ‘beautiful people’ choose to reside here. It was when I got back to my room I had the realisation that I was in holiday mode. Normally the sound of crickets at night would see me awake and annoyed until I feel asleep dreaming of ways to annihilate every cricket on the planet. Yet here I found the cacophony of wildlife at first tolerable, then even soothing.

Being from the South I wasn’t aware the difference in the sunrise o’er East. An early night and this massive red thing that looked just like the sun just a hell of lot bigger and brighter had me up and out of Coffs by about half 7; Mc Breakfast here we come.
I only had a couple of hundred kays from Coffs to Surfers as I had planned the driving days to get shorter so as to get there chipper. I stopped at Byron Bay for several hours having a good walk around the beach before taking the long route to Tweed Heads where I stopped to pick up the things you don’t need much in Melbourne; sunblock, lip balm, board shorts etc.
It was here I first realised the difference in pace and attitude. Everyone was happy and no one was in a hurry. I found myself zipping through the traffic to keep up to the speed limit were locals were happy to coast along 10kph below it. I was getting annoyed at someone blocking up a round about locals were adjusting their radio, hair, makeup, and / or nuts. Just out of Tweed Heads I drove through a residential development called Salt. Stunk of money; very nice architecturally designed, large houses built on sand. It was amazing you have this beautiful, unique large home and right next door there is a vacant block that is pure white sand. Would love to know what sort of engineering goes into to seating those homes, after 10 years you could find yourself a block away from where you built with the sifting of the sands. Beautiful though and the amount that had obviously gone to building some of these places I’m sure they have thought how to ensure they don’t float down the road.
I cruised into my home for the next 5 days at Broadbeach and the car was exactly as it had left Melbourne bar bugs and dirt from 3 states.

Oh Yeah; then there was 4 days of this; Yee har.

2006-06-08T16:30:00.000+10:00

So I’ve had a request for a story

The following is a dramatisation of a fictitious event that may or may not have occurred to anyone or no-one that definitely does not resemble the author or any facsimile thereof be it flora or fauna, animal or mineral. Actually it could have been one of the dudes on Mount Rushmore, strike mineral. Really that’s just silly, thousands of tonnes of stone would never be able to work the clu-huh-hutch.

So there wasn’t this fellow that didn’t live in fictitious town of Marmelaide and never owned a black Suzuki RGV 250 motorcycle. They weren’t a road going version of 250cc Grand Prix motor cycle and the non existent chap never road it like it was the last lap of the final race that would win him a world championship. As this is a figment of no-one in particulars imagination no doubt he would have been a multi-discipline, many times world champion, super model, kidopaedic surgeon, peace treaty meditating, sensitive, new age, law abiding type of mother fucker; as it where.

Had he and or she been a real being then he or she or it may or may not have told the following tale. Yet as he and or she or it (not excluding heterogeneous or cross sexual individuals nor refer to them as ‘it’ and where an alien species currently referred to as ‘it’ due to our non discovery of said species takes offence to said ‘it’ then ‘it’ will be replaced with the appropriate language once aforementioned species is subsequently discovered assuming they don’t eat our brains) doesn’t and never did exist therefore the text below is merely a figment of your imagination. If you don’t like it you need to have a good hard look at yourself!

Was one of those days. I’d knocked off worked early on a beautiful Friday afternoon. I was chipper as hell, the sun was shining bright making the bitumen warm – sticky, the air was cool therefore for dense, containing more oxygen – more burn.

Turning right past after the golf club heading towards beach adjacent to the airport there was two clear lanes as far as the eye could see. There was just enough road to hit about 190 in sixth using the right hand lane to get a wider entry into the long left hander onto Tipley’s Hall Road, this is fiction remember. Knocking it down 2 gears I put her in at about 160, my right leg was at right angles across the pathetic millimetres of foam that substituted for a seat with the ball of that foot pushing down hard on the outside foot peg that was reaching for the sun for that nano-fraction of extra grip.

I remember thinking ‘I could have tipped in a bit quicker’ and was quickly looking for the next cog. Having just changed down my left, inside, foot was above the gear change and I needed to get that foot around and under the gear lever to click up. No clutch, that changes the centre of balance twice (once clutch in, one clutch out) which you want to avoid if possible at that combination of speed and lean. No clutch moves the weight once and fast. Moving my foot out and around the gear shift my black Jordan 9’s copped a bit of a grind on sanding belt bitumen below.

Mid way through the long, safe corner I look around to see if I need to throttle off for traffic and there is no one to be seen on the road I am entering, Dufus the God of Stupidity is shining on me today! I give it the berries and start to stand the bike up for the exit while tucking in. I’ve got my bulky dri-rider on with a nap sack so if I’m going to get v-max I need to be aero slick. The thing is wound hard to the stops but in the certain corners on those certain days you just keep winding and winding hoping there is more. 6^th gear, flat change, no clutch, little over rev but I'm changing on the rev limiter anyway so it only drop about 1,700 of the available 12,500 revs. Chin of my helmet vibrating on the fuel tank, stay down, stay down, v-max; that’s nice! Head up, hold the bars tight with a proud chest or get blown off the back, never ceases to amaze me what a good brake I am dropping 40ks in no time just by sitting up in the wind.

Funs over, I prop my left hand on the hip crack my visor a few mil’ and enjoy the cold air invading the hot helmet as I slow to the speed limit. Check mirrors, shouldn’t be anyone for miles, no one could keep up – what the FU.... Cop on motorbike behind me – flying!

I hope to hell there’s some serious shit is going down ahead of me somewhere. He’s slowing, probably doesn’t want pass at too high a speed; denial is a beautiful thing. He is motioning me to pull over, probably just wants to, maybe he just; nup I’m fucked. The real race is now on, my heart and sphincter are trying to set new world marks in contractions per second and my brain is flooded with enough electricity to power a small town. I seem to be somehow vibrating like an bung fridge as I dismount, de-helmet and lay my jacket over my bike to show I had no guns, drugs, frozen human heads etc; he seemed to be a tad apprehensive! I greet the officer with the only thing I have; youthful bravado.

“What you running from” he asked straight up. “Nothing”, I smile, “beautiful day, didn’t see you, thought I give it a squirt. How long have you been behind me?” “Been trying to keep up since you turned off from the golf club. You didn’t see me and bolt?” He hadn't moved his right hand from 3 inches above his gun at that point? I finally convinced him I was just an idiot, as opposed to a criminal idiot on the run and the officer relaxed a great deal, I didn’t.

My only saving grace was we were both bikers. I asked a million questions not caring for the answers just to keeping him talking. He was on a brand new BMW patrol cycle with the screen that raised and lowered dependant on speed and all the cool police bike garb which we dwelled on for a time. I dropped in reference to race tracks and some good racers I knew at the time. Pointed out I had the ducks nuts, ultra soft tyres off a 600 supersport race bike and discussed why I choose a Kevin Schwantz helmet when there was Gardner on the outer, Doohan starting to win lots, and Dazza Beattie riding well, yada, blah, yada, blah. I was so far up his arse he was getting indigestion, give this man some Mylanta for crying out load.

After spit shining his shoes and felating the exhaust pipe of his BMW it got down to. “So, how fast were you going?” “I’m, I ahh, I reckon, probably about... not sure what do you think?” “Well my bike was flat out at 205 and you were pulling away from me.” “Really?” shitfuk! Then he went into a bit of ‘If I were an old sergeant that had never ridden a motorbike he would drag your sorry arse to gaol for endangering life and you wouldn’t drive or ride any thing more than a push bike for many years....’ Well if he’s telling me what someone else would do then he aint gonna do it, woo hoo I’m not going to gaol, I start to sing it my head. Meanwhile I am filtering his hot engine oil through my teeth, bowing my head in shame, and enquiring as to if he’s short on any organs I could offer all the time in my head I’m not goin to jay ole, I’m not goin to jay ole, I’ll be no ones Bee itch, I’ll be no ones Bee itch, then finally the end game.

“I booking you for 99 in an 80 zone, don’t do it again the next bloke won’t be so kind” He wrote the ticket and smiled knowingly at the shaking hand that reached out to grab the ticket; almost desperately.

What a ridiculous story that could not have possibly happened to anyone ever, never, ever.

Bad week for extreme sport

2006-05-31T17:18:00.000+10:00

A full gamut of emotion has been evoked this week via the 4 loses, and 1 rediscovery of Australian extreme sport practitioners in recent days. First there was the New Zealander that tens of others of his ilk walked pasted as he lay dying. Lincoln Hall was lost then found after spending a night alone in the ‘dead zone’ of Everest. Then Sue (no) Fear tragically fell into a crevasse and is presumed dead, at time of writing there is still faint hope she may still alive. Then there was Anthony Coombes who died while base jumping in Europe.
I really do get this guy and was particularly pleased to read his mother thoughts. Mrs Jarrett was content that her son lived a happy life and died doing what he loved most. At the end of the day can anyone else ask for any more? One could leave a huge legacy and a large family but if the family isn’t happy and you die at your desk having worked too hard to live life what’s the freekin point?
I get this guy as I am well into sports where if you get it wrong you can die. I don’t want getting it wrong means a dart stuck in the cork, a 2 stroke penalty or 5 minutes in the sin bin. I want getting it wrong means slamming it into the Armco or sliding along your arse hoping the cow that gave itself for your leathers didn’t use moisturiser and your back protector works. I want getting it wrong means you have 30 seconds to cut away the main chute and deploy the secondary or your fertiliser. That I get. My eyes work faster and I find myself holding my breath for short periods just thinking of track days or jumping out of planes. I just love it to death; quite literally if necessary. I’ve been becoming conscious of the breath holding thing lately. I am pretty sure it is done in order to increase my heart rate. It seems to happen at the beginning of the ‘fight or flight’ and ‘time to get excited’ cycles – very interesting.

Now mountaineers; I so don’t that. I have this mental picture that is a version of the Seinfeld episode where George is involved in a building evacuation where he throws women and children aside to save his own sorry arse. Well in my version there are many George’s. They are wind burned with over-protective sunglasses wearing feather / down puffy jackets and full mountain boots. In my version not only are they throwing men, women and children asunder but also stepping on their own in order to get the hell out.
One can image one of Lincoln Hall’s fellow mountaineers talking live to the BBC on his Sat-phone back at base camp about how there was nothing anyone could do for him as he walked into the bloody tent. In their defence I obviously have no understanding of it takes to survive in those conditions. Listening to the radio I heard that it takes all your effort and concentration to keep yourself alive up their but I’m sorry I am of the no-one gets left behind mindset. If you can afford US$50k to fulfil such a 'folly' (to quote Sue Fear) you can surely afford to stop to comfort someone in their last moments and have another crack later.
Each to their own but I would not get involved in a sport that has the potential to put me in such a predicament.

Doco of the Decade (so far)

2006-03-02T21:31:00.000+11:00

Browsing through the T.V. guide after World News on Tuesday night I came across the intriguingly titled ‘Born into Brothels’ on SBS Hot Docs series. Being a doco type of guy and having a connection to ‘the industry’ I thought that had to be better than watching folks with varying degrees of ‘celebrity’ (what ever that is these days) destroy the fine art of ballroom dancing.

Because it was from the US I thought it might be about children of brothel owners who lived in or around southern ‘cat houses’ (if they actually exist outside of Dolly Parton, Burt Reynolds movies?). The only other things I knew about it was it had a captivating title, made the ‘Hot Docs’ list and won an Oscar. Really wasn’t expecting a profound experience but that is certainly what I got.

Simply it is about children who live in the brothels of Calcutta’s red light district who are given cameras and are taught how to use them to record life from their perspective. I won’t go into more detail as the makers have a great synopsis on their brilliant website. They have also done similar projects in Jerusalem and Haiti and I strongly suggest you browse the bios of these amazing children. If you can read about the delightful 10 year old Micheline (bottom left in the collage) from Haiti and not be shattered you must have been assembled not born. Spend some time on the website, it’s absolutely fascinating, you can buy the works of the Calcutta kids and given that 'Kids with Cameras' is an internationally registered non profit organisation. Imagine that you can buy art – to create an air of sophistication, support kids – to increase the karma bank and get a tax break – what Kerry said, win win win!
I have ordered the DVD (and maybe a picture) from the site and will ensure those I know watch it; there will be a test people!

I have been listening to Lou Reed’s Dirty Boulevard a lot since seeing Born into Brothels. I see it is a description of the Western version of BiB.

Dirty Boulevard, Lou Reed from the album New York.

Pedro lives out of the wilshire hotel
He looks out a window without glass
The walls are made of cardboard, newspapers on his feet
His father beats him ’cause he’s too tired to beg

He’s got 9 brothers and sisters
They’re brought up on their knees
It’s hard to run when a coat hanger beats you on the thighs
Pedro dreams of being older and killing the old man
But that’s a slim chance he’s going to the boulevard

He’s going to end up, on the dirty boulevard
He’s going out, to the dirty boulevard
He’s going down, to the dirty boulevard

This room cost 2,000 dollars a month
You can believe it man it’s true
Somewhere a landlord’s laughing till he wets his pants
No one here dreams of being a doctor or a lawyer or anything
They dream of dealing on the dirty boulevard

Give me your hungry, your tired your poor I’ll piss on ’em
That’s what the statue of bigotry says
Your poor huddled masses, let’s club ’em to death
And get it over with and just dump ’em on the boulevard

Get to end up, on the dirty boulevard
Going out, to the dirty boulevard
He’s going down, on the dirty boulevard

Going outOutside it’s a bright night
There’s an opera at lincoln center
Movie stars arrive by limousine
The klieg lights shoot up over the skyline of manhattan
But the lights are out on the mean streets

A small kid stands by the lincoln tunnel
He’s selling plastic roses for a buck
The traffic’s backed up to 39th street
The tv whores are calling the cops out for a suck

And back at the wilshire, pedro sits there dreaming
He’s found a book on magic in a garbage can
He looks at the pictures and stares at the cracked ceiling
At the count of 3 he says, I hope I can disappear
And fly fly away, from this dirty boulevard

I want to fly, from dirty boulevard
I want to fly, from dirty boulevard
I want to fly-fly-fly-fly, from dirty boulevard
I want to fly awayI want to fly
Fly, fly awayI want to fly...

2006-02-16T14:25:00.000+11:00

Breaking News: PM sends Vaile, AWB Chairman to Iraq to save wheat contracts

So he's sending the head of the company that illegally funded Sadam and is currently under investigation for same, along with the bloke who completely failed in his UN chartered responsibility to ensure kick backs did not occur. Anyone else see a problem here?

In keeping with this brilliant idea he is sending Pol Pot and Idi Armin to represent Australia at a human rights conference, Alan Bond to represent us at a Corporate Governance symposium and Harold Holt to a Swim Safe think tank.

To paraphrase NSW Premier Morris Iemma 'what a f***wit'.
http://www.abc.net.au/news/items/200602/1567436.htm?sydney

2006-02-15T15:44:00.000+11:00

A thinly Vailed (or Valed) threat

Mark Vail and his crop of cronies claims he had no idea that AWB was giving kick backs to Saddam. In 2003 the US presented a report that stated exactly that. In 2004 the Australian Ambassador to the US personally lobbied to have an investigation the kick backs stopped. Despite the fact he knew nothing about it? Add to that reports that a blind mans dog grabbed Mark gently by the shirt cuff and led him towards AWB. In a separate incident Skippy was at the end of his desk clicking away like mad whilst pointing to a photo of AWB headquarters and freekin Flipper turned up in the Parliamentary lap pool do his thing with a blade of wheat in his gob. Vail, just like Howard and children overboard, is either a liar or an idiot; either way Australians deserve better. As has been the case for the this decade of Howard government truth in government simply does not exist; it is all about plausible deniability. “I’m damned sure something funny is going on here but if I don’t ask and won’t listen I can claim I did not know.”

Danna Vale fits into a similar category but she definitely has a little from column A, a little from column B with an enormous amount of ignorance to boot. I am not going to spend a lot of time discrediting her moronic statement as everyone from the Opposition to her own Minister for Immigration has done so and I have made my thoughts clear in an email to her.

These incidents come just after the defection Senator McGowan from the Nationals to the Liberals. This coalition is like a really bad marriage with lots of money involved where neither party wants recognise the dysfunction for fear of losing what they think is important; money. In this instance it is not money but power (if they can be separated) that is keeping this highly dysfunctional relationship together. In this instance we the Australian people are the children of this marriage; those that get hurt while “the adults” play there pathetic power games.

It is said that a society gets the government it deserves. What freekin atrocity, acts of horror and / or diabolical deeds have we as individuals committed to deserve this incompetent, narrow minded, every-freekin-thing-phobic, self serving coalition.

The only thing that is holding this government together is their insatiable lust for power and this is happening at the expense of regular Australians like you and me.

2006-01-03T14:23:00.000+11:00

130i - First drive

I was waiting with more anticipation than usual for January 'Motor' to arrive in my mailbox knowing it would beat the 130i I had ordered some 3 weeks earlier to my possession. Like the premature ejaculating teen in American Pie my anticipation turned to disappointment not once but twice. First when I discovered I had already read the STI v. VR6 v. 130i article in a European magazine; damned syndication. Secondly on page 26 you 'promised' I would have my 130i before finishing the article yet I had to wait another fortnight. Seriously though... Coming from a Y2 Maloo R8 I was afraid the Beemer would be short on grunt. A month in a Corolla hire car helped alleviate that no doubt, but the power and torque of the light Beemer coupled to a well geared, slick gearbox makes them surprisingly similar to drive in traffic.

In the 'twisties' the only similarity is that both cars are 'white knuckled passengers' quick. The Maloo was your mistress where as the Beemer is your wife. You could throw the Maloo into corners knowing it would be nose heavy moving the weight to the back using the throttle. You could over step the line doing this but like a good mistress should it would let you know when you were getting to the line, when you were at the line and even allow you to cross it briefly if you knew 'how to handle er'.

The Beemer needs to be stroked, caressed, even 'sold' into a corner with its low weight and kidney jolting suspension making it skip across any inconsistencies in the road. The other obvious differences can be summed up in a bevy of abbreviations; DSC, DTC, CBD, EBD and like a wife these cunningly sniff out any mere kindling of fun and smothers it completely before it turns to fire. The Maloo had none of this and I have not yet adapted my driving style to adapt (read: I hate it). It is like every driving input I perform is reviewed by committee before allowing to pass with no notification of decision given. Normal mode couldn't raise a smile from person just released from 4 years of sensory depravation and DTC is more yawn than ya hoo. Turning the whole thing off gives me the confidence of landing the space shuttle manually mainly due to tyre quality. I had S03's then Eagle F1's on the Maloo that leave the Beemers 18" Eagle NCT5's for dead. The S03's are out as the 130i needs run flats to account for the lack of spare wheel but I think a car of this capabilitity deserves the (run flat) Eagle F1's.

This mug loves his 130i, it delivers fun beyond my high expectations with a great level of luxury, function and amazing safety. Like the hill start mechanism where, even in the manual, when you take off on an incline the brakes stay engaged for a few seconds, or until you move forward, ensuring you don't roll backwards effecting a perfect hill start every time.

I find great value in its $70k (half an M3 in price only), and it uses about 10L/100km with 25,000km service intervals.

Dis ride is pimped!

2005-12-08T14:50:00.000+11:00

Poem: A Dog Named Man

Intro

Cows & sheep

Moo & bleet

As I walk on down the road

Birds the melody

Feet the beat

As I walk on down the road

Got a swag & a pan

And a dog named Man

And we walk on down the road
----------------

I left my girl and my home town

Coming up 4 years ago

Ever since then me & Man

Been walking on down the road

Got no place that I call home

Cannot be tied down

We wander round me & Man

Get work from town to town

People sometime ask us

Why it has to be this way

But Man don’t answer so I don’t too

And we go about our day

Intro

I was shearing on a farm

Five mile out from Dangaran

For a pretty young widower

Who fell in love with Man

As it turns out it wasn’t just Man

That she took to her heart

We settled in for nigh on three months

Snuck out one night at dark

She cried for weeks

The lambs did bleet

But it’s hard to explain to woman & sheep

Roadside under stars is where we need to sleep

So it’s me & Man, Man & me

And another girl left alone

Next we looking like settlin down

We’ll keep walking on down the road

Intro

2005-12-02T13:31:00.000+11:00

I haven't posted for some time so I thought I would throw up a poem. A good ole' Aussie bush poem.

Me & Fred

Walkin round the bush

No-one here that I can see

Some spotty cows, a kangaroo

Fred the dog, and me

Now me & Fred we’ve been best mates

Six years now or more

He choose me at a cattle station

Kept hanging round me door

From time to time we don’t have much

Me swag, me boots, me rhyme

But we get by on what we got

And curl by the fire

It’s what we both born to do

Hear sheep baa and cattle moo

Sleep at night under stars and moon

That’s what Fred & Me like to do

So if it’s us you see by the road at night

Don’t look at us with pity or fright

Cause we’re not lonely, sad or blue

Me & Fred got each other, probably happier than you

2005-11-03T17:03:00.000+11:00

Dude, where is my Ute

As part of our colonial heritage Australia inherited and modified a version of rhyming slang. Being phonetically based one phrase can mean several things.
A few examples:
China / copper plate = Mate
Dead horse = sauce
Frog and toad = Road
Bag of fruit = Suit or Ute
Richard the third = turd
Harold Holt = bolt
As a kid, before a long car ride Dad might say (albeit only if he was an bad Oz version of one of the Ronnies or Benny Hill), "OK me ole China plate we need to Harold Holt, if you don't need a Richard the third jump in the bag of fruit and we'll hit the frog'n'toad "
With that in mind. Some low life drop punt swiped me bag of fruit; the one I drive not wear.

My ute is like having a high class hooker for a girlfriend. Always expensive, at times troublesome with a capital T but the fun is all caps, bold, large font F_U_N anytime, anywhere.

G's (forces)
Geeez? (wow)
&
Geeeesus! (shifaarrrkkkkk)

285Kw, 520Nm running through a 6 speed manual gearbox to a limited slip differential with the only traction control being your right foot and a desire to minimise the 235/40/18 tyres @ $520 a corner appearing as blue smoke in the mirrors. Every time it rained even the mellowest trip became like an advanced drivers course. The slighest combination of steering angle and accelerator would gaurantee wheel spin which would have the backend trying to swap places with front until the mechanical (no computers here either) LSD caught up.

The engine blew at 13,000kms requiring a rebuild under warranty and the diff went at 27,000kms. The bastards said the diff was due to driveline abuse (crap) and I had to pay. I was absolutely rabid at the time but as with any lose of a loved one you quickly forget the bad times and desperately yearn for the good.

On ode to me Bag of Fruit
She may be a ho, but she my ho Bro
Fill her full'o the good stuff and watch her go go go
She ain't just a straight liner she loves them curves
I'll sit ya in the passenger seat and wreck ya nerves

And stop, I tells ya, right on a bean
Have yo ugly mug squished up on the windscreen
Yer she's tempramental, one of the worst Divas
But she'd kick Makybe's arse over 3200 metres

You can hear her coming be it engine or brakes
Excited school kids point with their mates
Chicks might think with a ute I am good with my hands
This freekin hire car Corolla ain't helping that delusion man

Me old bag of fruit, she's gone now & I have to move on
While those stinking, loser criminals probably pull another bong
I hope the law catch 'em and throw the pricks away
While I'm cruising round in a bling bling BMW coupé

-------------------
To my knowledge Wiggam has not questioned Fat Tony or Snake regarding my distinct lack of ute. Reverend Lovejoy's wife was gossiping to anyone who'd listen suggesting Quimby had 'taxed' it for his spoilt "That's Chow-der Frenchy" nephew. Will the incompetence and corruption of police and government never end? I don't feel safe parking my car anywhere in Springfield. THINK ABOUT THE CHILDREN!

2005-10-12T20:10:00.000+10:00

I love Bathurst

Bathurst is for Australia as the Indy 500 is for the States. Well over 100,000 men, women and children camping around a bitumen and concrete tunnel to watch highly paid men wreck very expensive automobiles. In a world where conservation is key, car pooling is cool and buying a second hand V8 is about as appealing as buying a second hand coffin there are 50 odd one person cars doing 161 laps at the rate of 3 litres of petrol per lap with a thousand or so tyres to consume landfill at the end of the weekend; I love Bathurst.

On the Friday practise session drivers were hooking into Forrest Elbow at the end of Conrod Straight going full noise (300kph) trying to get the car straight to brake hard for a set of second and third gear corners. At the same time any number of spectators were hooking into their sumteenth can of Bundy’n’Coke at full noise with no chance of getting straight, seemingly taking corners while trying to stand still.
Drivers spend all weekend trying to avoid hitting walls using precise cognitive skill and amazing reflexes while the spectators are simultaneously destroying those abilities while racing head first towards their inevitable ‘crash’; I love Motorsport.

Saturday was an average day for motor sport but the spectators didn’t seem to mind. We are Australian; our national hero’s are a cricketer and an armed stick up artist, our second longest serving Prime Minister held a Guinness world record for drinking beer, we eat our national emblem (the kangaroo) and have a day off for a three and half minute horse race so it’s no surprise many saw the rain as an opportunity to take an extra dose of ‘inner warmth’ and hoped for an increase in on track carnage. A combination of the whether and the old ‘never letting a mate down’ Aussie spirit soon delivered the carnage in the early support races as less expensive cars with lower paid drivers were sliding off into walls and sandpits to the delight of all. Excepting those in the pits who had to pay or work to fix the damage I would assume. The top ten shoot out for pole position on Sunday started wet and finished dry giving a huge advantage to the later entrants.

All this excitement took me by surprise; I was up for two hours on Saturday before I even put underpants on. During this time I heard a most troubling conversation:

Left:	Morning Righty. We’ve been out for a while, must be Bathurst.
Right:	Thought it was cold. I must’ve slept in, where’s Dick?
Left:	I think he saw some pit girls on the telly, you won’t get his attention for a while.
Right:	He’s hopeless, but it must be nice to have a head, and an eye to see with though. How are things up there?
Left: (annoyed)	Whinging already! When are you going to get over the ‘Up there’ thing Righty; it’s barely a couple of millimetres?
Right:	Easy for you to say Mr “I don’t take the brunt of bike seats”. You just...
Left: (yelling)	No more Righty! I was just trying to point out the beauty of our freedom but you can’t have a conversation with out the ‘poor me’ routine. No more!
Dick: (screaming)	Shut up you two there are girls in lycra on TV. LYCRA DAMN YOU!

I had no idea there was so much testicular tension. A veritable enclave of envy, I don’t know what to do? I guess when you spend that much time so close relationships are bound to get a little testy (a-ha, mmmmm). I feel I should intervene and act as a mediator but where would I start; you can’t change nature?

Sunday was a much more calculated affair, none of this waking up caught unawares and un-underweared. The race coverage started at 7am with a morning practise then a Carerra Cup race that provided a monumental spill with one flipping on its’ roof at about 260kms, culminating in the main race starting at 10am.

An absolute prerequisite for watching the race was a sparkling clean car. Driving a derivative of one the two cars racing I had to have it ready for a victory cruise in case ‘we’ would win. I set the alarm in time to clean the car and pick up some couch condiments and be home in time for 10am start missing the drivel that goes on before hand. Can’t handle that, it’s like sitting a young child in front of their presents of a Christmas morning and telling them they can’t open any until the national anthem is sung; I want to see a motor race not a freekin’ opera. Ask me about Aryton Senna I could bore you to tears, enquire after Three Tenors and I’ll lend you $30.

Anyhoo, my military like timing thwarted any mention of anything “girt by sea”.
What is girt anyway, you don’t girt things, and things don’t get girted. “I was having a picnic the other day and suddenly I was girt by ants”, hardly. Anyway if ‘home’, an island, was going to be girt by something what would it be if weren’t sea? Our home is girt by...Marshmallow, Our home is girt by...Gerbils, Our home is girt by...that wet stuff. We have iconic songs like the one about the bloke that stole a sheep and topped himself when the cops caught up with him. Girt by police he saw no way out it seems. Or that song the country fella sings at the rugby. That’s a better choice, no one commits suicide at the end of a crime spree and nothing is girt by the obvious in that one.

The race, as Bathursts are these days, was a 5.5 hour sprint punctuated by a series of safety car laps. ‘We’ won despite the fact Lowdnes, Ambrose and possibly Ingal were quicker on the day. One by one they managed to self destruct in some strange ways. Lowdnes made an uncustomary mistake once he had built an early lead only then to be hit by the detached wayward wheel of another car that had just hit a wall. Both Ambrose and Ingal cars were delayed due to failing to meet safety requirements. Bathurst is the only internationally sanctioned race for V8 Supercars where the wearing of fireproof balaclavas under helmets is required by FIA regulations. The cars are very hot inside and being a once a year thing it would be easy to forget and Stone Brothers Racing drivers weren't wearing them. A costly mistake as Ambrose got a penalty for his co-driver not wearing one and then had to stop again to put one on himself. Ingal managed to quietly pull off an unscheduled driver change, scurried out the back before returning minutes later ‘balaclava-ed up’ to relieve his co-driver that had only done a few laps. It probably saved him a penalty but the two driver changes would not have been a great deal shorter in time.

The important thing is that at least until this time next year I can look at those poor buggers that drive the other brand with an air of superiority; I love Bathurst.

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N.B. Paper mache is not recommended to provide wheel access to a primary school.

2005-10-11T11:57:00.000+10:00

Today’s Headlines

The voices in my head tell me which countries to invade

A new documentary soon to be released will quote foreign diplomats saying George Bush told them “God, told me to invade Iraq.” and “God, told me to create a Palestinian State”. President Bush was busy denying this when his special translucent red phone with no dial started to flash; he needed to take that.
I sure hope his voices know the difference between Austria and Australia; no I didn’t grow up near Schwarzenegger, George.
Note to American voters; it would probably be best for everyone of your next president didn’t go to war because the voices in their head told them to.

Marcus Ambrose’s last appearance at Bathurst?

A very long line has formed to buy Marcus Ambrose a one way ticket to the States after his latest performance. Marcus hopes to gain a Nascar drive next year and if it gets the arrogant piece of nasty out of this country and off my television screens so do I.

Much ado about nothing; so far

Australia is going rabid over proposed new industrial relation laws. The government is spending millions of tax payer money telling us why it is good. The unions are spending millions of their members’ money telling us that it will be at the peril of Australian worker. The media is on a feeding frenzy, yet only the broadest details have been released to date. So the government is saying “That thing we aren’t telling you about will be great for you, trust us”. The unions are saying “That thing that we don’t know much about will be really bad for you, trust us” and the only thing they have in common is the fact that you wouldn’t believe a word either of them said.
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Religious War: People killing each other over who has the best imaginary friend.

2005-10-06T23:33:00.000+10:00

A bit of fun for a change

In one of my first posts there was a vague reference to my complete contempt for 2 party ‘democracies’ such as the particularly poor example we suffer with in Australia. I am going to try and tackle that over the next few blogs but not before a relevant and hopefully amusing anecdote.

In Australia we are forced to vote once we turn 18. As a nineteen or twenty year old I choose not to and was sent a letter stating that I needed to tell them why I was unable to vote; so I did. With an equal measure of naivety and rebellion I calmly pointed that there was no one worthy of my vote and I wanted someone to represent me not some party machine that has no deference to local interests. That was the rebellion part, the naivety part arrived in the post in form of a small fine and a letter listing some acceptable reasons for failing to vote which included childbirth and coma. I may have written back suggesting they use my fine in a strange combination of origami and proctology.

Not a chance I was going to pay that fine, this was my stand against the obvious failing of this system. Come to think of that ‘equal measure’ was well weighted towards naivety. I ignored the subsequent late notice, final notice, referral to courts for failing to pay a federal fine, larger court fine, notice of intent to issue a warrant for arrest and finally notice of following through with the arrest warrant.

Well what a winner I was. As long as didn’t get pulled up for something insignificant and give the police cause to do warrant check by giving them lip or similar I was home free.

So twelve to eighteen months later, still very young, I was on a mercy mission to provide vital medication for the needy early on Saturday morning when I was pulled up by the police driving my decrepit 1970 Datsun. Alright it was a hang over cure sortie for bacon, eggs and iced coffee for me and the Datsun SSS was much more at home on a race track than a public road.

I politely explained to the police officer I wasn’t travelling over the speed limit therefore I could not understand why I was being delayed. He was faster in pointing out whilst that was true it was customary to slow down for corners and roundabouts, particularly when it’s raining.

When you were a kid did you ever hear funny noises coming from your parent’s bedroom so you poke your head in the door to make sure everything is alright? Only to realise the very nanosecond you discover the source of the noise that you are old enough know nothing good could have come from that action. It strikes you it was either going to be that thing that movies stars do but parents definitely do not, or disrupting a murder in progress. You also learn that no matter how unpalatable the only other option may be it can seem preferable in order to get oneself out of the one’s current situation.

Unfortunately the alcohol of the previous evening attacked and destroyed the very brain cells containing those lessons. I would very soon realise that wasn’t the time to share with the officer I had done those corners and roundabouts much faster than that “all the time” and would have again if it weren’t for the fact I was suffering a hangover that “would kill a small dog”.

I had that terrible ‘noise in the parent’s bedroom’ feeling again as the police officer walked down to his patrol car to check my name and address he had written down. I was only carrying the few dollars I needed to complete my mission; no wallet therefore no license. I had thought about the fine for not carrying a license as soon as I was pulled over, decided that a fair bust and was confident that he could only give me a(nother) ‘bit of advice about my driving style’. I have a very successful strategy for getting out of, or reducing driving offences but that is another story. I had not made the connection that putting my name into the computer would result in him having to arrest me.
N.B. Adrenalin overload is a sure fire, instant cure for a hang over.

It is amazing what becomes important when faced with imminent incarceration. I immediately became quite concerned about my attire. Or lack thereof with the full inventory being my daggiest, oldest track pants, the very loose sweater I slept in and a pair of Caterpillar work boots that were closest to hand when I began my short trip, I had not bothered to do them up. No underwear, no T-shirt and for some reason I was most concerned about no socks which would turn out to be justified. Suddenly I became very conscious of the cold so tied my boots up tight to compensate for lack of socks and became aware of the wind chilling parts of me that were usually covered in t-shirts and underwear.

On a positive note it was warm in the police car all the way to lock up and police officer and I got along great. I was resigned to my fate while steadfast in my position and these fellows seemed greatly amused that I would go this far in a battle I could not possibly win. “Why didn’t you just pay the fine mate?” one would ask. “But then they win!” I retort. “As opposed to...this?” he asks.

The trip to the closest holding cells seemed lengthy but was warm and cordial during which the officer explained I just needed to pay the latest iteration of the fine, some 8-10 times the original, or spend about 4 days in jail based a dollar amount per day calculation. Still resolute, having not yet seen let alone entered the lockup, I very briefly considered doing the time. With little cash and no cards, really wish I took my wallet, I would have to call family to bail me out which would be nice to avoid, plus doing the time would fulfil my crusade. In reality I was a conservative banking dude by day so ringing the boss Monday to say I can’t come in for a few days until my sentence was served really wasn’t an option.

As soon as we arrived at the local lock up my now matey officer allowed me to make a call to organise someone for my release before starting the book in process which was not normal protocol so that was nice of him. Whilst my Mum would have been their in a jiffy it to save her dear Son from cavorting with criminals it would have stressed her out where as Dad wouldn’t be stressed; far from it as it turned out. I figured the dressing down would similar in length from either albeit very different in delivery so I took the ‘don’t stress Mum’ option. Dad seemed as amused as the arresting officer was, said he would come bail me out and drop me back at my car. At the time I didn’t notice the mischievous tone to his voice.

The officer that bought me in handed me over for book in telling the processing officer I was a “good kid”. At this point I am feeling quite the James Dean. The cavalry is one the way, the officers are all being very nice and I am being locked up for standing up for my beliefs. Tianamen Square got nothing on me baby, remember I was young and much more self centred.

That feeling would not last long. My lack socks came back to haunt me during processing as I was asked to take out my shoes laces. Enquiring why this was necessary I was told it was to prevent me from hanging myself... with my shoelaces?... for the heinous crime of failing to vote?... while my Dad was en route to bail me out?

Bugger, cold ankles again, at least the heating is working in the station which turned out to be little consolation as I was I lead outside to the cells.! Yes out the back of station the cells were the old school sliding bar variety, totally open to the environment except for the 3 foot corrugated iron veranda, or rain noise amplifier as it were.

The angle of the rain made the first foot so of the cell floor wet. Colder than cold was the small holding cell containing a cot along one wall barely 2 feet wide with a thin mattress whose only covering were stains of assorted colours and sizes. Later I discovered that was the ‘clean side’. There was no toilet or basin as this was only a temporary holding cell. Seeing my shivering I heard officer say he would fetch me a blanket over the sound of metal on metal as the sliding bars grated to a halt with a solid thud. The turn of the key was the final, undeniable sound of incarceration. Never one to exaggerate but I am so ‘middle class white bread’ that one of the 90+ descriptions the Inuit people have for white translates to ‘Dissident Dave’s arse’ so it was hardly surprising this provoked a moment of reflection.

It is hard to understand but I maintain there is a certain freedom in incarceration. There is freedom in having no choices to make. You have a rock solid ‘excuse’ for failing to fulfilling any commitments you may have. There is no consideration needed for when or what to eat and no one, partly because there wasn’t anyone, has any expectations of you. If you didn’t smear your own faeces all over yourself and the cell you were consider a good guest. An absolute social abyss devoid of any decision making. I certainly am not saying this is everyone’s experience. I was briefly in a holding cell where there was no prison population knowing of my imminent emancipation that at least heightened and may even have been the sole cause of this feeling but it was definitely a different ‘brand’ of freedom.

After a while in the cell having a found a warm spot in the foetal position on the cot with the blanket wrapped around my neck and tucked into the top of my boots I started to wonder where Dad was as he lived only about 40 minutes away and I rang him well over an hour ago. It was then I started to recollect on my Fathers broad and often exercised sense of humour.

As a young family we used to take long 4WD trips up and down most of the famous Australian outback tracks including the Birdsville, Strezlecki, and Gun Barrel tracks. We also did the Stuart Highway from Adelaide to Darwin when the bitumen only went to Port Augusta leaving over 1000 kms of dirt road with mixtures of hundreds of kilometres of corrugations that would rattle all your innards, deep bull dust (very fine nearly silicone red dust) that gets into everything, and washouts from floods where the road just disappears for kilometres. Dad never... ever got tired of the old ‘drive off just when you get to the car door trick’ after a ‘bush toilet’ stop. He would take great delight in doing it again and again and again... in heat that could melt the chrome off a tow bar. Another favourite was when I was water skiing in cold water with Dad driving I would pull off a Sir Wheat (sweet) dry start barely getting spray above the knee and once we had cleared the beach he would start pumping the accelerator of the boat off and on while shrugging his shoulders. Sometimes he would even shut the boat down signalling dismay to me, an actor he is not, and I would get low in the water to point where I had to bail or start dragging my back leg then the boat would miraculously refire and off we would go to the vast amusement of Dad.

After a very long and peaceful wait, really have no idea how long it was as time too was pretty much irrelevant, I received word that I was a free man. At that point I was well past my wistful reminiscing and asked my delighted Father what took him so long. Barely containing his laughter he said something like “Oh, were you in a hurry, you should have said something.” and needn’t finish with ‘there endeth the lesson’.

I am bit smarter now, at least in respect to dodging the vote, and soon realised that getting your name ticked off by attending a polling centre and voting are two entirely different things.

You walk into one and there is a station for getting you name ticked off, a station for collecting the forms, private voting booths for filling out the forms and a final station for casting the votes. There is no control of flow between the stations, not even velvet ropes or anything. Hmmm, it would be fun to design a RFID system for the electoral commission that could track a persons flow through the stations while conforming to privacy requirements: but I won’t. So it would be very easy for someone to walk into a busy polling centre get their name tick off to avoid the fine and just slink on out again.

For the record I categorically deny I have ever done this and it would be an infringement of my rights if anyone would suggest otherwise as voting has guaranteed privacy. I would like to think any person who get their name ticked off without voting could just deny it and should be constitutionally protected. Opps, there’s that naivety again. :-)

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N.B.

Beware of contact with Monorail sales persons. It always ends in song.

2005-10-06T19:11:00.000+10:00

Today’s Headlines

The Talk Show Host list of ‘Head of States to Assassinate’ grows
In democracy loving America Christian television talk show host Pat Robertson called for the assassination of democratically elected Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez recently. Hardly a good example of Christian or American values Pat.

Now Bill O’Reilly has called for the assassination of Syria’s leader Bashar al-Assad “if he doesn’t help us out”. That could be bad news for other Heads of State if they need to pull troops out of Iraq. It seems not helping the U.S. out in the no win situation they alone created is now punishable by death.

Blair put the home side back on track
MI5 have confirmed they intercepted a phone call between 82 year old terror suspect and British Prime Minister Tony Blair for the pensioner’s ejection and detention under new terror laws last week. An MI5 spokesperson said while it seemed the suspect politely accepted the apology from the British PM they are checking to make sure it was not code.

2005-09-30T08:49:00.000+10:00

Score update: 2 All

After Briton’s brilliant early goal and a strong follow up victory is no longer guaranteed with a second own goal being conceded.

In the immediate aftermath of the despicable London bombings Briton scored an vital early goal with a ‘world’s best practise’ initial response along with the heroism and resilience of the British people.

That initial advantage would not last long as soon the balance would shift with the tragic death of Jean Charles de Menezes. It first looked like a second British goal was cleared off the line when it was discovered the victim was not carrying a bomb. Attack soon turned into defence as it turned out Mr de Menezes was in no way linked to the London bombings or any other terrorist activity. The defence eventually collapsed under the pressure of CCTV and witness accounts at odds with Police justifications of the tragic death culminating in the first own goal being scored by Scotland Yard.

This left a lingering scare in the defence but offence was again building with the efficient capture of the second bombers that failed a few weeks after the initial attacks and subsequent successful extradition of one of those suspects. It was back to a 2-1 lead and there looks to be a bevy of scoring opportunities awaiting Briton in the form of convicting these suspects. Achieving this would put Briton in a seemingly unassailable position.

Then an 82 retiree is man handled out of an auditorium for calling British Foreign Minister Jack Straw a liar whilst Mr. Straw was delivering a speech. Another person who defended the 82 year old gentlemen was also removed in a similar manner. While this was an embarrassing slip the second own goal was slammed into the back of their own net when the 82 year old man was denied re-entry to the auditorium based on the new British terrorism laws! Exactly what terrorist act was he going to commit; incontinence with intent, conspiring to nod off, having a walking frame of mass disruption?

The silencing of an 82 year old dissident through the blatant abuse of the new terrorism laws leading to the detention of this retiree without charge is not only a small victory for the enemy but also the first step in a very dangerous direction. The second own goal is on the board and can’t be reversed. Now Briton has to learn from this error and takes action to ensure this does not become a flood own goals to the detriment of freedom. To allow it to continue would be conforming to the type of society that a huge number of fine men and women from many nations are risking and giving their lives to liberate others from. It is important enough to repeat; allowing this it to continue would be conforming to the type of society that a huge number of fine men and women from many nations are risking and giving their lives to liberate others from.

Right now it’s 2 all after the London bombings. It could be 2 - 0 but for the misuse of power. The first instance was in a moment of fear and chaos but had a tragic result while the second was indescribably less tragic but much more calculated. Briton will move into a winning position with the successful conviction of the failed bombers. Even with that they can lose if they do not acknowledge this second error, as they were eventually forced to with the first.

Shoot to kill remains policy in times of exceptional circumstances in Briton and at least there is an argument for that. There is no argument for the fascist detention of an 82 year old man for calling a politician a liar. For the good of the free world Briton needs ensure the terrible abuse of power that caused the second own goal does not become policy or we all lose.

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N.B.

Safety Tip: If ever surrounded by a mob of angry Rhinos have someone roll a SUV in the vicinity. The SUV will inexplicably burst into flames and the Rhinos, nature’s fire-fighters, will run to stamp out the flames hence allowing for your escape. :-)

DISCLAIMER

The above safety tip has only been tested in a 2 dimensional, animated environment and is only guaranteed if you are a character on The Simpson’s. The author assumes no responsibility for the success of this advice in any non animated environment, especially those with 4 or more dimensions (some string theorists are up to 11).

The author supports the responsible rolling of SUVs and subsequent toxic fireballs only for the purpose of Rhinoceros distraction.

2005-09-29T09:36:00.000+10:00

Today's Headlines

'Heck of a job' Brownie defendes roll in Katrina
"We did not lose one judge of Arabian horse shows, not a single blue ribbon was damaged therefore I fulfilled my area of expertise."

US sets new heights in hypocracy
A US judge has decided the US will to continue to harbour terrorist Jose Posada and is now considering invading itself as per it's own foreign policy that states "And America will hold to account nations that are comprimised by terror, including those who harbor terrorists - because the allies of terror are the enemies of civilisation". The judge cited that is was against US law to legally extradite people to countries that may torture. Meanwhile the CIA has stated it does not apply to them with the difference being they illegally abduct people to send to countries that they know will torture. At the same time the FBI are wondering why countries seeking extradition don't just come and murder him in cold blood, a process known internally within the FBI as the 'Ojeda Rios rule'.

The profit gluttony, or fuel crisis

2005-09-22T20:17:00.000+10:00

“Motoring companies are deluding the public by suggesting that high petrol prices were due to anything other than the overwhelming impact of soaring oil prices, Prime Minister John Howard says.” Was the opening paragraph in an article on The Age website on 22/09/05 titled ‘PM denies tax reap on fuel’. Prime Minister Howard is a very smart man and a lawyer by trade. Whilst no-one could successfully argue the statement is a lie it is only a very small part of the truth. There is a common misconception in Australia that government fuel tax is a percentage of the wholesale or retail price hence the government is profiting on the current high prices at the pump. The tax is fixed per litre so the government would actually be suffering currently as people are using less fuel because they can’t afford it.

Author’s Note: I feel that kind of dirty that can’t be cleaned. Those last few sentences could sound like I am siding with, or even making excuses for the government, Oh the shame!
I strongly believe the dissident has a very important role to play in democracies and I am passionate about throwing my little grains of sand onto the beach of dissidence. While I live in a two party system I will never support a sitting government and only dislike the opposition slightly less until they come in government, then it’s their turn; it’s a great sport :-)

The soaring prices at the pump are predominately due to unconscionable profiteering of Oil companies. US oil giant ExxonMobil (think first half Valdez, second half large Australian presence) has just posted the largest first half profits for any company ever (US$15.2 billion profit for 6 months!) according to their own website. Since US oil companies where handed huge tax breaks in 2001 the 5 largest US Oil companies have reaped combined profits of over US$220 billion. In 1999 US oil refiners were making 22.8 cents per gallon, by 2004 that had increased 80% to 40.8 cents per gallon according to www.consumeraffairs.com. US oil companies have a huge in presence Australia and reliable data is more readily available, no doubt profits are similar in relative scale / growth for Australian based subsidiaries and others. Australia has not yet given tax breaks to oil companies but was about to. Up until this week the Australian government was planning to increase the petrol tax by 0.6 cents per litre to give back to the oil companies to develop cleaner fuels. But now they have come up with a much better solution. They will dump the increase in fuel tax but still give the money to the oil companies to develop cleaner fuel and every tax payer gets a slice of the bill. It is so ridiculous it sounds like a plot from UK sitcom ‘Yes, Minister’. I wonder how highly environmentally conscious people that don’t have cars feel about their taxes going to oil companies pulling in huge profits in a hope they will destroy the world at a slightly slower rate.

When Deputy John comes out with things like the this, ‘Children Overboard’ and ‘WMD in Iraq’, I never quite know if he is just plain lying, trying to exercise his legal training by saying something that could not be called a lie but does not go close to revealing the truth, or if he's simply so out of touch with reality that he really believes the nonsense he expels. I find it offensive that he would think the Australians would believe the ridiculous propositions he put to us in these cases. Even worse would be if he was actually silly enough to believe his own ‘private realities’. Wasn’t there are catch phrase going around a while ago something like ‘...is either a liar or really gullible’.

The beginning of increasing oil prices in Australia coincides exactly with the invasion of Iraq. The oil companies seized on the publicly perceived, and no doubt to some extent real, decrease in supply to play the public for fools and this has been going on ever since. The steady rise in prices is certainly the product of disaster. There have been now the years of man made disaster that started with the WMD / Iraq + Osama lies, disastrous lack of planning and imperialist ignorance in relation to the Iraq invasion that has needlessly taken the lives of so many. More recently the natural disasters of Katrina, and now potentially Rita, will soon make an impact on prices at the pump. The devastation caused to oil rigs in the gulf and oil refining capacity on land, not to mention the countless desperate people that could not be saved because their national guard was busy in the futile quagmire that is Iraq, only exacerbated the real cause of the oil crisis which is oil companies mauling consumers in times of perceived short supply; and that was before the hurricanes! What are they going to do to us now?

Whilst there is no doubt that there is an imbalance in supply and demand due to increased demand, mainly in China, and the man made and natural disasters has decreased supply. But not for a second can China be branded the ‘bogey man’ in this current oil crisis. Statistics from the US governments CIA and DoE (Department of Energy) websites show that China has 1,306 Million people and consumes 14.2 million barrels of oil per day; a rate of 0.0108 barrels per person per day. The US has 296 Million people and consumes 20.7 million barrels of oil per day; a rate of 0.0699 barrels per person per day. Finding current Australian consumption data is proving difficult but no doubt Australia would not be far beind the US on a per capita basis. China has a population 422% larger but only uses 66.8% of the oil that the US does.

Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez pointed out in an interview in New York recently that the US having 5% of the world’s population while consuming 25% of the worlds oil production is quite obviously unsustainable. In that same interview President Chavez offered to donate fuel to the America’s poor as he does in to the poor in Venezuela and other countries that region. Due to the dangerous and typically ridiculous rhetoric being thrown around by Dick Cheney, not to mention Rev. Pat Roberts, about Venezuela and it’s President at the moment I doubt that offer will be accepted. That’s OK though, after all it’s only the poor that suffer, those that make the decisions can afford all the fuel they could ever need several times over.

I believe the solution is two fold:
1) Obviously all the world, including the author that has a 2 seat sports car that uses over 20 litres of fuel per 100 kms and goes through tyres like an active growing child does runners, needs to address our Phoenix like fascination with oil.

2) In Australia we need to regulate oil companies, if only to provide visibility for consumers to decelerate the swelling ill feeling against the oil companies.
There is a perception that pump prices going up the very moment crude up goes up but comes down very slowly if at all, there is the inexplicable different prices on different days of the week and the constant coincidence that is the price similarities. I just find it stunning that every oil company has exactly the same production costs; and no one has been able to find a competitive advantage in all the years I’ve been on this planet?
Sounds like a consulting opportunity for someone.
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NB - You don't make friends with salad :-)

2005-09-09T11:37:00.000+10:00