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Ode to Kevin Rudd

The mining tax was a brave move that cost Kevin Rudd his job and made him a martyr for the cause of economic fairness for all Australians. His mistake was not making it very loud and clear why the tax should go ahead in front of a bunch of television cameras. If so, we would have heard that mining companies have enjoyed some tax-free loans from the taxpayers over the years. Now that things are going well, it's reasonable to expect some of that money to be repaid and reinvested into aspects of Australia's economy that are falling down. Instead, he assumed that his word was everyone's command. As a result, mining companies began crying poor using very expensive television spots and full-page newspaper ads. And silly Rudd panicked, thinking the only way to fight propoganda is with propoganda. But as I like to say, if you fight fire with fire, you only end up with a bigger fire.


A fiery redhead came up with a big bucket of water to stop the fire turning the Labor Party into ash. Julia Gillard is the first female prime minister of this country and the first to gain her position via mutiny. And now everyone is scratching their heads and wondering, 'Doesn't a political party make decisions as a team?' 'How did Kevin Rudd not see this coming?' 'Was this the plan from the beginning?' Rudd was voted in because we could trust him to be fair and diligent and not indulge in dirty tricks or subterfuge. Like the nerdy kid at school he desperately wanted to be cool which meant attending strip shows, swearing in public and picking on big, bad, eco-enemies like miners. But all he got in the end was a swift kick in the nuts by a big girl who said he was a loser and made him cry in front of the whole country.

Will Australia reward treachery? Only if we have a reasonable alternative. At this point, I'd welcome a lucky dip to avoid the awful responsibility I feel each year of appointing a new captain to the helm.
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BP, oil, and other reasons to lie awake at night.

What is really puzzling about the oil catastrophe is that so far, everyone is keeping their jobs. Well, everyone who works for BP anyway. The shrimp farmers are screwed.

It was the US government themselves who announced it is in everyone's best interests that BP continue their job of providing over-priced fuel and destroying planet earth. This sounds to me a bit like a postal van crashing into my lounge room and being told they should continue driving through the house to the street on the other side to complete the mail run on time.

Now that I've learnt how, I would happily get on my bike tomorrow if it means showing BP we can live without them and their stupid oil. But of course we can't. Not unless we intend to stop using plastic, fuel and cosmetics all in the same day. That would mean a lot of groceries being transported in brown paper bags balanced on bicycle bars by self-conscious housewives. But it wouldn't have to be for long because I've got a wonderful plan.


I can understand that if BP had to shut down every oil rig tomorrow those shouting devils at Wall street might need new pace makers. But why should BP executives continue to enjoy being paid a kazillion dollars per hour to send encouraging messages to their shareholders? I suspect that if my workplace spilt a billion litres of anything we would be ousted from our positions quicker than a Labor Party leader.

So my wonderful plan involves firing the BP board of buffoons and replacing them with Hamish elders. No better stewards of earth's resources can be found on this earth than this blessed bunch. When they talk about how much horsepower got them up the hill they are generally talking about two actual horses. They also don't know much about plastic and chances are, have not even heard of the oil spill because they don't watch TV. All this makes them perfect for the job. An Hamish board of oil executives would send every shareholder a recommendation to trade their stocks in for a horsedrawn buggy and to join a coastal working bee. Together, they would pick up all the oil-soaked animals and use giant patchwork quilts to soak up the oil and wring it into barrels.

Then BP would then stand for, Buggy Power and each buggy would be built out of plastic from the oil collected from the spill. And then the BP executives would be given jobs driving us around town in the horsedrawn buggies and I think I should stop there before it all starts to sound a little fantastical.

My plan might sound absurd but allowing BP executives to continue enjoying a seat on the throne of corporate greed while bleeding the earth is much more so.

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Some white goods are no good.

Have you noticed how many machines are being manufactured to perform an elementary cooking task? Its almost as though people see some vacant bench space in their kitchen and think, 'Must fill that'.

My rant today was inspired with a sighting of a plastic "Cocktail Maker". The fact it was gathering dust in a second-hand store indicates its history. Someone bought it for a cocktail party. They probably stopped making cocktails thanks to the very non-party-like whirring noise it made and dumped it in the op shop bin they woke up in.

I'm sure there are some people there who may be unable to shake a traditional cocktail mixer. Maybe they lost an arm during a tour of duty or maybe they have arthritis in their fingers - who knows, but if your life is this miserable I'd expect you to be ordering your drinks straight up at a bar. So really, there is no one on earth who could benefit from this machine. And yet, there is a factory in southeast Asia that spits them out on a mass-manufactured scale. Who can explain this oddity of the 21st century homeware industry?

It must be a terrible consequence of all these weddings and house warmings. You try to be a good guest and find your host a practical but novel item that will add to their quality of life. So off to the white goods store you go and before you know it, you're walking out with a doughnut maker. This is only because you know they definitely won't already own one and no one else will be silly enough to get the same thing. And so manufacturers are forced to come up with more and more magical machines to fill the $25-$50 gift price bracket.

I'd like to know who eats so many doughnuts they can justify production of them at a commercial rate. Even if doughnuts are the staple of your diet you can't be seeking economy with such a device. You still have to traipse over to the supermarket to get the flour, sugar, cinnamon, icing sugar and sprinkles. And then you have to measure the ingredients into the machine and wait for the doughnut to pop out. So sure it might be fresh but you'll also be fresh out of spare time.

A friend of mine called me up in the days leading up to my engagement party and asked nervously if we might like a deep fryer. I said yes rather optimistically as I envisioned making fish and chips for my new husband and Dutch sweets for my mother-in-law. Six months on, we have only come as far as pulling it out of the box then putting it back in again. This is because it requires 3 litres of oil. As a result, that economical, homemade meal of fish and chips costs as much as a lobster and you are left to deal with two-and-a-half litres of oil in the fryer and half a litre sprayed on the ceiling.

Popcorn makers are another target of scorn. Show me a popcorn maker and I point to a microwave with one hand and hold up a one-dollar bag of kernels in the other hand.

Quite simply, there are better things to be putting on precious kitchen bench space. Like my pie maker! I know you'll sense some hypocrisy but this pie maker is constructed from black metal so it hardly counts as white goods. And it works like a little black kitchen pie ninja. I simply cut two circles out of frozen pastry, press one into the pie maker, pour in a can of chunky irish stew, toss on the second pastry circle, close the lid and in ten minutes I have dinner sorted. As they say, once you go black, you'll never go back.

So next time you're tempted to buy a white, plastic, "Egg Peeler" or an "Automatic Meat Defroster" try to remember how easy it is to do it the old-fashioned way. Then buy your hosts a pie maker.
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Big Brother Lost My Address

Everyone goes on and on about how nervous they are about handing over their personal details to anyone. What I find frustrating is my details aren't used to track me down enough. Remember the old camera film stores? Prime example of what I'm yelling about. Every time I dashed in a precious roll of film they'd take my name and number and the moment I step out the door, they'd must have used that piece of paper to roll a cigarette.

Six months later I'd wake up in the middle of the night remembering the forgotten film. Then wonder why they didn't bother to give me a call. Then I'd wonder why they ever bother to take your number when they have absolutely no intention of calling you. This doesn't make much business sense because they didn't get their money until I picked up the goods. Assuming I'm not the only forgetful person in the pre-digital era those little drawers must have been stuffed full of forgotten photos. Did they ever stop to think we might take photos because we lack a photographic memory and require a tangible reminder of things we have seen


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Qld government, you're under arrest

Apparently, our government is breaking the law. Why then, do we not see sirens whirling atop police cars on their way to Parliament house? In our latest example of outrageous criminal activity the Health Department is stealing money from nurses. They've said it's only because they gave them too much money the week before. Trouble is, we have a law that says you can't just grab it back and hope they didn't notice. You have to go through a process - a process that might have prevented the payroll system from going completely berserk and leaving some workers with nothing at all.

I should imagine that being a nurse is a difficult job. If I am ever in need of one I always hope that they have had a really good week. Perhaps their hairdresser outdid themselves or maybe they just discovered the wonders of oxyaction cleaner on blood-stained uniforms. I don't know. Anything to ensure that the person responsible for my comfort and wellbeing is not in a foul mood. Being hungry would put a nurse in a foul mood, or not being able to meet mortgage repayments, or even being forced to accept cash loans from work mates to pay school fees. That would be enough to make you care just a little less about how deep the syringe is going into an arm. So good luck if you need a medical Anna Bligh. They might find reason to amputate - off with her head


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It's Never Like Riding a Bike

I've always hated the phrase, "It's like riding a bike." That probably has a lot to do with my lack of bike riding ability. You haven't heard a bigger bombshell since Pluto was kicked out of the planet list so brace yourself: for 28 years, I've never gotten past the training wheels. This could be excusable for a kid living in the mountains of Peru where they didn't know what a wheel was. I like to think they probably came across the concept at some point but whenever they made one, it would promptly roll off a cliff and was never seen again. Perhaps I should have just moved to Peru, taken up corn growing and revel in the knowledge that my Peruvian friends didn't give a cocao bean about the fact I couldn't ride a bike. But you don't know about Peru or passports or how to grow corn when you are eight years old. All you know is that you can't ride a bike but all your friends can. And that it doesn't make you very popular or feel very clever when you can't join them on a bike ride after school.

My parents bought me a very cool BMX so its certainly not a lack of resources that was the problem. My older brother promptly sent me hurtling down our steep driveway on it which is probably closer to the crux of the issue. Somehow a lifelong vow against ever riding a bicycle again was inspired in me. I never even saw bicycles again. Instead I saw a two-wheeled machine of terror that children were forced to pedal around as if it might be fun


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No-Sales People

I drove out west to try on a matron of honour dress that my bride-to-be friend had picked out for me. The shop assistant took one look at me and said, "Well, you won't fit into that." As I blinked in surprise, she then turned back to my slightly more svelte friend and said, "You'll have to try it on again." "But I'm the one who is going to be wearing it." I said incredulously. "She's already tried it on. I drove two hours to see this dress!" Requests for the same dress in a larger size were met with blankness. Finally she relented, "I suppose we can hold it on you." We went into the change room together and she began slipping it over my arms, "Ah, yeah see its a bit tight." she said knowingly. I bit my tongue while it slipped over my torso. The zip slid effortlessly up my back. Though I say it myself, I looked like a goddess. The shop assistant was still surprised how the dress could fit on such a heifer as myself. I'm a size 12. Any smaller and the dress would have swum on me like a football jersey.

I then insisted on trying on several more dresses and if it weren't for hungry lunch stomachs, I would have tried every last one


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Iceland? More like Fiery Volcano Land

You don't hear much about Iceland. They mustn't get up to much. Perhaps they are busy hiding under a thinly veiled disguise of being inhabitants of an "Iceland" when in truth, they should be known as "Volcanoland". Yes that does sound like a Disneyland attraction and perhaps it wouldn't do their trade relations any favours, but their secret is out now, Iceland has more fire than it does ice.

What is really interesting is how concerned we all are about our holiday plans going up in flames when the Icelanders are facing a veritable Armageddon. This is a volcano people! Just because we haven't heard of Icelanders doing anything doesn't mean they don't exist. Why are they showing people curled up asleep on airport counters? I want to see journalists trembling on the rim of the fiery crater, eyes burning, microphone melting as they report on the sulphurous chaos


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Jessica Watson

We all said she shouldn't go. We all wished she would just stay home and play some sort of Wii sailing game. But when she was sideswiped by a wayward ship she became a celebrated underdog. A battler on the high seas, the likes of which have not been seen since, well, the last Australian to undertake a solo sailing journey around the world.

The really cool thing about Jessica is she is doing this for herself. She's one of those natural-born adventurers who think nothing of it, who find a solo sailing adventure as everyday as a bike ride. Which makes it easier to resent her success and ignore the fact she endured a 12 hour storm


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A DOG BY ANY OTHER NAME

The Supreme Court has seen Mabo win land rights for indigenous Australians, Pauline Hanson smear mud off her reputation and now, they are judging the fate of a dog.

Gold Coast City Council are insisting that this dog must be put down because it is an American pit bull terrier. The owners insist it is in fact a purebred American Staffordshire terrier and therefore has a right to remain on Queensland soil, rather than six feet under it


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