The Jon Doust Blog

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 17/1/2012

2012-01-23T07:30:00.000+08:00

This column has been written standing up, on my feet,keyboard on a lectern, screen elongated to its full extremity on a desk.

Why? Pain. Oh, I can hear the sympathy cries. Please, let mespeak.

The thing is, like a lot of men, I am not good with pain.What do I do, scream, lie still for hours, call for a glass of water, whimperfor a sandwich as soon as the working woman arrives home from her daily grind?

No, that’s not me. My history with pain has not been a sensibleone. Like many country blokes of this and previous generations, I have tendedto ignore, push through and do battle with those bits that hurt me.

So, when I woke up this morning with a knife in my leftside, I did what any country bloke worth his pepper would do, I grabbed thehandle and stuck it in further. In other words, I headed for the garden, took aspade, called it by its name, and went for it.

Of course, as soon as I stopped for breakfast, the painreturned full of vengeance, vitriol and a fierce determination to stop me in mytrack and make sure I couldn’t find another one to walk on.

All this reminded me of the time I damaged my knees whiledistributing a small booklet I had written called “How to lose an election”. Instead of stopping for the day I decidedto complete the job while hobbling and running at the same time.

Eventually I collapsed and every so often the knees remindme of my idiocy by giving way beneath me.

Finally, to close, a few words of advice for blokes just likeme from that great Australian philosopher Oliver Newton John, who once, when inpain, sang: Listen to your body talk.

And it would have helped if she had added: Then go and seeyour health care professional.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 3/1/2012

2012-01-11T10:54:00.000+08:00

As always at this time of the year I offer up tips fortourists and locals alike. I begin with those for our very welcome visitors.

1 – Do not drive down York Street. This year’s ChristmasPageant was moved to the Middleton Beach precinct and half the floats did notarrive. It is believed they are trapped in a roundabout time-warp and every sooften other vehicles are sucked into the void and old timers tell us none ofthem will ever be seen again.

2 – Before you head off to Middleton Beach it is best to eatand drink before leaving your accommodation.

3 – Remember, this is not a mining town, our City Council isa victim of itself and the GFC and our local MLA is not in the ruling party andspends most of his salary on Collingwood Football Club paraphernalia, so weneed cash. If you fail to spend all your holiday money there is a collectiontin at my place.

Here are my tips for the locals, those long suffering folkwho put up with weather worse than Melbourne to ensure visitors have the infrastructurewith which to enjoy time off from some place up north we have forgotten thename of.

1 – If a tourist says they think our weather is glorioustell them it won’t last, that the week before they arrived all hell broke looseand even worse weather is expected after they leave.

2 – Do not invite them into your home, once they realise welive here without air-conditioning they will want to come back.

3 – When meeting visitors on the street, twist your face andscream names of vegetables as though in the grip of Tourette’s disorder.

If you require any further advice don’t call me because I amon my annual holidays in Dalwallinu.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 20/12/2011

2011-12-23T10:22:00.001+08:00

You want my view of the change of route for the annual Christmas Pageant? Here it is.

I was one of sock creatures walking alongside the giantChristmas stocking in the Albany Comedy Club’s ground breaking float lastSaturday. Well, hardly a float, more astack of recycled socks carried along by feet.

We don’t reckon Flinders Parade is the place for a pageant.At least half of it runs alongside the caravan park and nobody stood there andonly a few took advantage of the CWA lawn.

Our vote goes to York Street and most who hung around for achat at the end said the same thing: York is the king. The Ellen Cove grassyverge did, however, seem very jolly all decked out in stalls and frippery and anumber suggested it would be an ideal venue for the next boat load of babyboomers with more cash than sense.

And now let me respond to the suggestion that the change wasabout refocussing the event to make it a “less commercial, more family orientedaffair.”

Hang on, there is no more commercial time of the year thanChristmas. It’s all about commerce. When it’s over economic statisticians willreveal how well the economy is doing by disclosing the amount of dosh spent in thelead up and aftermath.

Christmas is no longer about the birth of that great bloke Jesus,it’s full of pagan symbols and mainly about consumption - eating, drinking andwrapping paper.

The mighty York is designed for a pageant - it’s our MainStreet, provides perfect viewing both sides, up, down and middle, plus plentyof places for a coffee and milkshake. Middleton - a magnificent beach – mightonce have been an entertainment hub, but until Calamari’s gets back on theboil, it’s a dead dud.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 6/12/2011

2011-12-19T21:36:00.006+08:00

Sorry, it's a bit late this one. too much on my mind. Too much to do. Enjoy your festive season.

As always at this time of the year you will find me in Manjimupworking on the Cherry Harmony Festival.

It’s not easy, eating plump ripe cherries for a solid week. Youhave to train yourself, take a couple here and a couple there, then, finally,plunge headlong, mouth open.

What’s it all about,people often ask, assuming that it’s about cherries? Nothing is all aboutcherries, not even a cherry festival. But it is all about food and the abilityof this rich and fertile south western corner to provide an abundance ofdelicacies for those who live in the northern wastelands.

It started 10 years ago when Manjimup was in the grip ofdespair following the dismantling of the timber industry. A couple of localgroups and Paul Omodei, ex-MLA for the region, decided to hold a public meeting.

What a day it was and all day I spruiked: “What this townneeds is a cherry festival!” and all day tired old men came up to me and said:“You’re an idiot.”

Then, when all seemed lost, four women stormed my personalspace and yelled: “You’re right. You’re a genius! We’re having a cherryfestival.”

I shook their hands, congratulated them and wished themwell. They refused to let me go and said: “You don’t get out of it that easy, matey.You are on the committee, you’re part of the team, stacking chairs, consolinglost children and calling the Australasian Cherry Pip Spitting Championships.”

This year is the 10^th, all in a row, and eachyear bigger and better than the previous and even though a number of festivals havethreatened to be cherryless, they always magically appear, ripe and plumpenough to send folk away in much the same condition.

The Doust Files - 22/11/2011

2011-11-25T17:18:00.001+08:00

Don’t youjust love it when the tourist boats slip into Princess Royal Harbour, tie upand let their human cargo lose on our well prepared town awash with eager volunteers?

We know whothey are, in their brightly coloured shirts, smiles at the ready, full ofinformation about here, there and everywhere.

The townfills, all the shops scream “come to me”, bands play in the park, busesdistribute folk all over town and the coffee shops fume with over-heatingmachinery.

It is, afterall, only for a day and so we make a huge effort to ensure they leave sayingthings like: “What a town. The people are so friendly and there is so muchgoing on. It must be exhausting to live there.”

But we knowthe truth, don’t we, because when they all leave, we sit back, exhausted,knowing full well that there is nothing else to do until the next boat comesin.

Oh yes, therewas once a life here for those of us not prepared to cram into a tight spot inthe night club, or brave the bar at a pub. Not that long ago we had a top notchhotel with a bar facing Ellen Cove and luxury rooms fit for our visitingfriends, those with more money than sense.

Those werethe days. And recently we had a great little venue down there, tucked into onecorner of the Cove, where local musicians could play their hearts out while therest of us tossed our bodies around like we never left the teen years.

You don’tneed me to tell you - you know it’s going to get worse.

Eventuallywe’ll lose the pubs because alcohol will be banned from the centre of the city anddeemed “not family friendly”. The next to go will be the shopping centres,which only encourage problem-shoppers, the churches because they only pray onthe vulnerable, and the library because it houses books and look at the troublethey have caused over the centuries.

We’ll kickand scream and cry out and some idiot will hang socks but when it is all brokendown we’ll realise that it’s probably all about something quite simple, like insurance.

The thingis, no-one can guarantee anyone’s safety, anywhere, anymore and the only way tostay alive is to not really live, but to hold out in your house, lock thedoors, bolt the windows and if someone knocks, call the police.

The police,of course, will not come, unless your insurance policy covers public officialsvisiting your property.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 8/11/11

2011-11-22T06:16:00.001+08:00

The recent kerfuffle over the people banned from the cityduring CHOGM reminded me of the time I was on the WA Police Special Branch listof suspects.

Let me be honest, it all began because I was out of work,not long out of university and struggling to make prospective employersrecognise my great skills and accept my promise that I would be the next LaurieOaks.

But I’m not a chap to sit around even with loads of time onmy hand so I planted a massive and much admired vegetable garden. I think itwas the first, the last, and the only community vegetable patch in thedistrict.

In between plantings I read a book by a man called HenryRoot. Henry filled in his time by writing letters to pompous people, prickingtheir balloons and enclosing money so they felt obliged to reply. I got rightonto it.

Among the many I wrote to were Alan Bond, the PM of NZ SirRobert “Piggy” Muldoon, the PM of the UK Margaret Thatcher and Queensland’svery own, Joe Bejelke-Petersen.

They all replied and no doubt a number of them reported me,but the one that forced the Special Branch to take action was the note I pennedto the French Consul congratulating that nation on the development of theExocet missile. This was during the Falklands War when Baroness Thatcher was ather virulent best.

Within the week a delegation from the Special Branch knockedon our suburban door to find my pregnant wife who welcomed them in with acheery “Yes, he is my husband. Would you like a cup of tea?”

That knocked them off their feet for a second or two butthey still insisted on meeting me in a carpark in the centre of the city andwhen I did I explained to them that my letters were satiric, meaning “acriticism of a folly and the holding up of said folly to scorn”.

Their collective brow curled over but fell back in placeafter I told them the joke about the Frenchman, the Irishman and theLithuanian. And I added that I was a working comedian and compiling a book ofletters to sell at comedy shows.

Years later when it was announced that the Special Branchwould be disbanded I wrote in to demand I be retained on a list of socialthreats because without it my life would lack meaning and I would lose majorbragging rights. Unfortunately I forgot to include money and I never heard fromthem again.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 25/10/11

2011-11-01T20:09:00.000+08:00

This can be a very anxious time of the year for both parties- the parents of the young and those who fear the fear of the parents.

The parents, of course, as the experts constantly remind us,are only protecting their young from perceived threats and there is nothing todo but walk with an umbrella, wave a stick, or perhaps wear an empty ice creamcontainer on your head.

I don’t do any of these things and yet I have never beenswooped by the bird Noongars call coolbardiin my entire life. Why not? What is it about me? Does my head look like anupside down ice cream container?

What’s more, I am not alone and whenever wemeet we share stories and marvel at the inability of others to recognise theintelligence of the creature or see the simplicity of the solution – don’t be athreat, be a friend.

But don’t try now, not if you live in the territory of a mobthat have a habit of swooping at anything that moves , wears red, reminds youof someone they once knew, or walks beside a dog that chases anything thatmoves, flies, or barracks for Collingwood.

Now is the spring of their discontent and the smartest thingyou can do is stay away from the nesting places.

When we arrived to occupy our Albany home the local mob werein a terrible rage and we kept well clear of them even though it resulted insome inconvenience. They were in a rage because some in the area wereintimidating them with sticks, stones and threatening body language.

We waited until peace reigned once again over the earth andthen we began our conversation, whistling as they flew by, installing a birdbath, making sure they saw us spread the sunflower seeds on the lawn andlooking at them direct, without fear, as though they were the friendly landlordcome to collect rent.

Right now I can hear their early morning calls, their carolsto the new day and their cries warning others in the mob that something is notquite right in their territory. I love those sounds and I love their nightsong, that one that no-one quite knows the meaning off but my magpie loving sonand I are pretty sure one of our possibilities is more than likely.

Local Menang elder Carol Peterson will tell you the coolbardi is the messenger bird and if you’d only takethe time to listen, it could change your life.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 11/10/2011

2011-10-23T09:41:00.000+08:00

This time last year I was in the grip of pleurisy. Breathing was difficult and, I’m pretty sure you’ll all agree, taking a breath is probably more important than what’s on the telly tonight.

To be fare, I should have spent time pondering the question: what will the God’s chuck at me this year? They have answered - a sore tooth.

My last sore tooth was at least 20 years ago and when my dentist at the time, a humorous chap called Rob, pulled it, he pulled it clean and healthy and all was good.

Rob was the kind of bloke who left jokes on his counter, not all of them funny and none funny enough to keep the smile on your dial while he stuck needles, miniature crowbars and other implements into your gum.

Dentists, by nature, are not happy people and not surprising given they spend most of their day looking down in the mouth. We are no help, because when we arrive we are in pain, vulnerable and as soon as the drill starts up we sweat from unusual places.

There are two things important to me in a dentist, okay three, because I do insist on a white coat. Then there’s competence and a sense of humour.

My Albany dentist has both and given the history of this column dictates that I make up a name, let’s call him or her, Doctor Hamersley. A column, you should all know by now, is not to be taken as an accurate account of what took place. We have a reputation for exaggeration, hyperbole and, well, making stuff up.

Dr Hamersley wanted to save the tooth: “It’s a good idea for people at your age to save as many teeth as possible.”

My age? That got me going. Then I remembered how old I was and settled into the excellent chair where, I must admit, I have fallen asleep as the drill entered a nasal passage.

I’m not sure why, perhaps because I am a clean and sober man, but the injections failed to numb my gum, my cheek or any part of me. The first session ended in failure and I had to return.

The needles worked this time, almost, and while Doc Hamer pushed, pulled and tugged, I was not bereft of pain, but by then I was so eager for the devil’s tooth to get behind me that I gritted and bore it.

You’d want the story to end there, but no, the devil wasn’t done. He arranged for an infection and I had to go back.

Next visit I’m having them all ripped out and then you can call me gummy.

Writer's in the Library - Jon Doust "Boy on a Wire"

2011-10-15T17:06:00.001+08:00

Date: 18 October
Venue: Mandurah Library
Contact Details:
Mandurah Library
Phone: 9550 3650
Website: www.mandurah.wa.gov.au

Sent to boarding school at a young age, Jack Muir decided he's a survivor. He gets by with a quick wit and fast mouth. Others aren't so lucky. The Age called Jon Doust "a writer with a distinctive voice" while The West Australian said the book was "a hilarious, angry and sympathetic portrait of boys behaving badly.
Boy on a Wire was long listed for the Miles Franklin Award in 2010.

Jon Doust was born in Bridgetown and has had diverse careers from banking to comedy.
His second novel - To the Highlands - is due for release in August 2012.

Book your seat at the Library - space is limited so book now to avoide disappointment.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 27/9/2011

2011-10-03T12:13:00.000+08:00

Here’s the thing about conversation, the guts, the meat: I say something, you listen, then you say something, I listen and so on, back and forth until we tire of each other, or one of us raises a fist.

At its best, it’s an art form. There are folk in this region who have a fine handle on the art and craft and I would consider them to be master practitioners.

There are, of course, others who stare with a great blank wash on their faces and sometimes small flickers of fear.

We should not abuse them, for natural conversation may be denied them because of a committed introversion, or because your face reminds them of a monster from a dream they once had at a very early age. Or even the night before.

There are others who believe they have mastered conversation but what they have is an intense belief in their right to speak non-stop in the face of anyone who gives them one tiny window of opportunity.

This is not conversation. This is hammer-speak.

This column, for example, is part of a conversation I am having in my head, but it is meant for you, the reader. And if you see me in the street, you are more than welcome to approach me and continue it.

Take care, of course, because some days I am more volatile than others.

You always know when you have had a good conversation, because you feel like you have been listened to and not yelled at.

My father was a good conversationalist, until that point where he felt like he was in an argument, then something grew in him and he became an opinion evangelist. His primary objective quickly shifted and he had to make you agree with him, to admit that he was right and you were wrong.

It could have been about anything, the colour blue, the core message of Karl Marx, the future of old growth forests, or the best way to fish for trout.

I miss the old bastard.

Now, to bring this piece to a head, I’d like to take the opportunity to remind the electronically hooked, that email, Facebook, sms, Skype, and so on, all belong to the same genre. They are vehicles for conversation.

Here’s how it should go: I email you, you read, respond, make some points of your own, ask a question or two, I read, respond, and so on.

Oh, there is one major advantage - no need for the fist. You simply delete.

2011-09-26T13:44:00.001+08:00

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2011-09-19T10:36:00.000+08:00

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The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 13/9/2011

2011-09-19T08:37:00.000+08:00

Don’t you just love it when people come down here and fill yourears with stuff we’ve been banging on about for years? It happened againrecently, this time an acquaintance of mine, a chap who dabbles in politics andmotivational speaking. Here are hiswords in full.

“Friend,” he began, “lendme an ear. I have a few things to say and keep in mind that although I may seemarrogant, I am an honourable man.

“It will not be my intention to talk down to you, or to buryyour pretty little Albany, but to empower you and your fellow townies.

“You know what you should do with York Street? Pull it upand install a tram. Tourists want an old fashioned mode of transport on an oldfashioned street. This should connect with a high-speed railway that brings peopledirect from Perth.

“What’s more, given the allure of Albany, why aren’t theredirect flights from Singapore, Hong Kong, New York and Buenos Aires. Pam Amshould be offering holiday packages to cashed-up private equity partners andmerchant bankers looking to escape the next financial crisis.

“Albany has all the allure of Copacabana, but all theattraction of Darkan. What are you making of it? From what I can see, nothing.

“Your port could house a permanent steamship docked as amuseum and testament to the grand old days when Albany lived and breathed thelife of a major town, rather than the coughing and choking life of a decayingappendage on a mighty state’s rump.

“Think big - hot air balloons over Ellen cove; hover-craftrunning from the Boatshed to the Yacht Club. Build yourselves a chair lift fromMt Clarence to Mt Melville; a water slide from Mt Adelaide to Middleton Beach; installgiant emu’s at emu point and a hair restoration facility at Bald Head.

“And that sand patch at Middleton Beach, that’s prime landdown there and ideal for a Scarborough beach type development featuring winebars, small intestinal restaurants, a drag strip and luxurious multi-storyapartments. Haven’t you got any property developers in Albany?

“This town needs a focus, a major entertainment centre,coffee shops, markets selling fresh produce and you should make something outof your Anzac connection.”

He offered to forward me list of suitable entrepreneurs andproperty developers, all friends of his and all honourable men.

I offered to drive him out to the airport and, amazingly, aplane arrived. I shoved him on it and encouraged the pilot to take himsomewhere else, and leave him there.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 30/8/2011

2011-09-06T11:35:00.000+08:00

People often ask if you remember what you were doing the daysuch and such happened. I do. Let me run through my list.

First, there was the day queen Elizabeth II came to Perth.1954 it was and we, almost the entire extended family, were on Stirling Highwayand because of my size I was constantly demanding to be lifted high above thosein front. It was easier to lift me up because while down I was unmanageable andkept yelling: “Is she here yet?”

Then there was the day Big Johnny Jones ran over a ladyduring the annual Bridgeton Soap Box Derby. Most folk have heard about it but Iwas there, front-row finish-line and saw him knock her clean and break one ofher legs. The other one didn’t look too good either.

When President John F Kennedy was shot I was asleep in myboarding house bed but woke early to listen to the news on my littletrany-radio and lay there sobbing believing life as I had come to know it wasat an end because my hero of the free-word had been assassinated.

Who could forget where they were and how they saw the firstman place his foot on the moon? I was in a South Perth Motel with my thengirlfriend and her brother and we watched it unfold on a very fuzzy littleblack and white tv.

And, finally, that day, how can I forget it, the day JuliaGillard, the 27^th Prime Minister of Australia, came to town.Everyone was talking about it, asking the same question: “What are you going todo when Julia walks down York Street?”

I had no idea. I had no plan. Once I had completed my meetingat one of the city’s most fashionable coffee houses, I stood for some minuteslooking up towards Anthony Horden - he’s the bloke up the top of York, in themiddle of the first roundabout – but nothing came to mind.

Feeling empty headed, I climbed into my car and drove toEllen Cove, which was in a glorious mood. Not only was the ocean just my kindof temperature, it rolled in waves the perfect size and shape for an aging,injury prone baby boomer.

What next? Of course, the automatic car-wash. But no, hangon, what’s that on my windscreen?

And that’s why I’ll neverforget the day Julia came to Albany, for it was on that day I received my firstever parking ticket, slapped on my windscreen for overstaying on York Street.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 16/8/2011

2011-08-21T22:10:00.000+08:00

Here we are living in the Great Southern with three towns on the cusp of powering themselves entirely with renewables: Albany, Mt Barker, and Esperance. And even, possibly, maybe, Denmark.

You’d think a government in the current climate, both weather and debate, would relish the opportunity to proclaim: “In WA we have four major towns powered completely by renewables.”

We are living in a state rolling with money and every quarter the Royalties for Regions team hands out buckets for all kinds of lovely new things that sparkle and glitter.

Meanwhile, power bills head for the sky while the sky shines on empty rooves and power authorities reap huge profits. Since the new man with the puffed chest came to the helm we are paying about 53 per cent more for electricity.

The money stacks up, the surpluses stack up, the bills go up.

Hang on, let me run through it all again just to make sure I’ve got it clear.

We have gas in abundance, but we can’t guarantee supply because we’ve given the selling rights to blokes who export it to make bundles of money for themselves and a State that makes us pay double the price of states that don’t have abundant gas.

We have solar energy in abundance but the puffed up team dumped the solar panel subsidy because solar power is too popular and too many people are supplying all their domestic energy needs, at their own cost, and thus relieving the under-the-pump power grid.

Is there something in this simple picture I am missing? Can someone explain to me why the R for R team is unable to recognise that it has an opportunity to do something lasting with the buckets of money, something smart that will ease the State’s energy crisis.

Minister for Regional Development, Brendon Grylls, said in a public forum that the grid is the problem and that it is unable to take all the power coming back at it from our rooves.

My mates in the solar panel business tell me that’s a load of old fish. Others say solar and wind will not fulfil our complete energy needs.

If the grid is a problem, fix it and if you remove four major towns from relying on power stations 400ks to the north, that surely makes sense and adds to the mix of energy sources.

Late News: The Premier seems to be insisting the major gas producers retain 15 percent of their output for domestic use. Well done, sir.

What next? Solar subsidies for the Great Southern? Our breaths are bated.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 2/8/2011

2011-08-09T07:16:00.000+08:00

We didn’t have to go out. We could have cancelled, stayed on shore in the warmth and comfort of our homes, our workplaces, our holiday homes. But we didn’t. We were brave.

The rain was already pelting down as we left the boat pen. The Zimbabweans climbed on deck but three of them decided very quickly to return below. One of them never ventured on deck again.

I stayed up top with the actuary. I didn’t get his name but he said he was doing his honours in actuary studies. About six others stayed with us.

Once we were out of Princess Royal Harbour the weather took a nastier turn. The rain came in harder, the swells got deeper and the boat rocked and rolled as though Bon Scott himself was at the wheel.

The Captain of the day, Tony Harrison, did his best to yell above the roar of the Great Southern Ocean and the flapping of the spinnaker.

He told us all he could remember about hump back whales, why they were out there, why they were there this time of the year and why they were giving birth when they normally saved that part of their lives for the Indian Ocean.

The actuary and I stayed with him and helped each other with the words we collected on the wind, putting them together to make complete sentences that made sense.

On shore not far from Ataturk the lookout spotted a whale slightly north of Bald Head. Off we went in hot but careful pursuit.

We found her and hers and Tony said it was probably last year’s calf.

With the weather refusing to improve the support crew refused to be intimidated and clambered around the deck with Anzac biscuits and scones.

The actuary and I screamed: Whale ahoy! Four of the beauties.

Tony pulled the boat around and we were treated to a marvellous display of hump back gymnastics. Whales were leaping out of the water, twisting, turning, flapping their great tails.

People struggled on deck, laughing, screaming, cheering. The rain pelted, the ocean washed on board and drenched most of us, including me and my mobile phone which never worked again.

We stared in awe as the great mammals calmed, then swam around us, checking us out to decide if we were friend or foe, then heading off for the Indian Ocean while we headed back to Princess Royal Harbour.

What a day. It’s a tradition for me now. Every year I go twice, once for the hump backs and once for the southern rights.

As I said goodbye to the actuary and his friends, I said: You wait, tomorrow the weather will be glorious. And it was.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 19/7/2011

2011-07-27T06:56:00.000+08:00

A couple of weeks ago the Men’s Resource Centre in Albany invited Julian Krieg from Wheatbelt Men's Health to town and he gave a strong talk about men and their risky behaviour.

During his chat Julian said that throughout his life he had always had a older male mentor, someone other than his father, someone he could talk to about his journey.

In my boyhood years that man in my life was my grandfather, a journalist and story teller, a disabled man who never complained, even when the fish refused to bite.

For many of my middle years there was no such man, but last week an old friend turned up in Albany and as I sat listening to him I was reminded of his intelligence and wisdom.

This is him, I thought, if ever there was an older man in my life who caused me to listen and learn. The funny thing is, he’s younger.

I first met Richard Walley when he turned up at a radio station at WAIT, now Curtin University. I was working at 6NR as an announcer and Richard arrived with his friend and teammate, Ernie Dingo. The two were regular contributors to an Aboriginal radio show and inevitably they were tossing around a basketball and tall stories.

We next teamed up when Richard was the master of ceremonies of a weekly comedy show at the Federal Hotel in Fremantle, a hotel run by Mark Manea, of the well-known Bunbury Maneas.

By then Richard had all the poise and confidence of a seasoned performer and he could tell a joke, a long story rich with meaning and a bloke to leave the premises.

During that comedy run all kinds of funny people turned up, Austen Tayshus, Russell Gilbert, Elliot Goblet, Peter Rosethorn and a few humble locals desperate to make their way. These included this writer in a trio called Off the Wall.

Through all this mayhem Richard Walley stood tall, humorous and dignified. The rest of us did what we could and there were times when Off the Wall had to be scraped down from one.

Over the years I bumped into Richard here and there and he always sat, talked and left me feeling warm, honoured and enlightened.

About six years ago we spent a few days together in Manjimup, during a cherry festival and it was over that weekend that I realised the man meant more to me than I had previously acknowledged.

Richard Walley’s CV includes a gig blowing didgeridoo at London’s Royal Albert Hall, an honorary doctorate from Murdoch University and involvement in the greatest modern Olympic Games in Sydney, but all this fades when I consider what he has given and continues to give, to his people, both Noongar and Wadjela, his country, and to me.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 5/7/2011

2011-07-08T15:42:00.000+08:00

Makes sense, doesn’t it, to get the police out of Police and Citizens Youth Clubs.

What the hell were they doing there in the first place? I mean, why would you want the police mixing with young people in a safe environment where they can get to know them, build a relationship and be a mentor for those in need of one?

All right, according to reports, the cops will still visit the centres to run certain programs. That’s very nice, and in the meantime they will be patrolling the streets wearing their authoritarian hats plus full battle kit and intimidating young and old for minor misdemeanours.

But before I get carried away, let’s remind ourselves.

The first PCYC was started in Sydney in 1937 as an initiative of the Rotary Club of Sydney and the Police Commissioner, William John MacKay.

The purpose of the club was to “provide a venue where boys could engage in healthy sporting, cultural and recreational pursuits and mix in a safe, non-confrontational environment”.

When I was a boy my home town Bridgetown did not have a PCYC and so I never attended a club, but many of my city friends did, learning to play badminton, table tennis and to box. Along the way they also built firm relationships with policemen who had a strong sense of community.

Let’s face it, if there is anything we need to work on, it’s a sense of community. As our cities explode and neighbours find less and less time for each other, community is what we need more off, not less. Having a friendly face stationed down at the PCYC, who happens to be in a police uniform, can only be a good thing.

However, we can’t stop progress and we must come to terms with the modern world and realise that such decisions are not made lightly, or by people on the ground, but by eminently sensible economic rationalists who have nothing else to consider but the budget.

It may well be a budget based on a very narrow view of the broader economic reality, but it’s theirs and they will stick to it. And they haven’t got time for fluffy stuff like community.

But, heed my warning, removing the P from the PCYC is just the start. Other removals will occur shortly.

Here are my predictions: The C will be taken from YMCA, the E will be removed from AEC, the D from the GSDC and the CI from the ACCI.

Finally, I know it’s frightening, but I do believe there will come a time, that in order to save printing costs and infrastructure expenditures, days will be removed from our calendars.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 21/6/2011

2011-06-27T14:56:00.001+08:00

In my time on this planet I’ve made a few friends and I can’t think of one of them who agrees with me on everything, but that’s one of the reasons I’ve kept going, just to annoy the buggers and to have a go at them when they make comments that hurt my ears.

Last week I got into a slanging match with a young farmer mate from Manjimup. Now, for most of its life Manjimup, or as I prefer to call it, the Warren District, has had plenty of rain.

Not anymore and pressure is mounting. By now in a normal year the dams would be full, the creeks running, the Warren busting its banks. My friend Jamie told me the only thing busting was his dad’s nervous system.

“What the hell are they doing to us, Jon?” yelled Jamie.

I knew who he meant, of course, but here was a bloke wanting to open his spleen and he needed an enemy. I was up for it. I asked who and got five ears full.

“The bloody politicians,” he yelled. “Are you paying attention? Are they trying to kill off farming? They want to tax water and we’re in a drought. Do they understand bio-security? Do they eat meat? Have they heard of the verroa virus, fire ants, fire blight, apple canker, cane toads, paterson’s curse, arum lilies, or watsonia? You there, Jon?

“What was that in the US constitution about giving up all your poor and bedraggled? Well we might as well hang a sign that says: Send us all your rotting fruit and veg and fill the boxes full of viruses, toads and diseases ‘cause we eat that stuff for breakfast.”

By now I was onto my sixth ear because the other five were numb and every time I tried to get a word in he snatched it and used it.

“I think Indonesia has about 60 percent of our live cattle trade,” I ventured.

“Did you say Indonesia? What the hell are those poor sods going to eat? I go to Bali every three years but I won’t be going this year even though it’s my turn and not because I can’t afford it because I can but because my head will hang in shame that we would cut exports without any talk, or warning, or without taking Meat and Livestock Australia (MLA) by the scruff of the neck and strangling it within an inch of its lazy pathetic life.”

Trying to introduce a little humour I asked if he would use a stun gun before the strangling?

“Stun gun? The beef boys are making money out of this trade, they’re not doing it for nothing, so why the hell didn’t the MLA pack up 500 stun guns and get them on the next plane? How hard would that be?”

My mouth was still. I was stunned.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 7/6/2011

2011-06-14T15:51:00.000+08:00

In a couple of weeks an old mate of mine will visit the Great Southern and talk about the risky behaviour of men.

He is a big man with a short name, Julian Krieg, and he drives a ute. I won’t name the brand because if I do at least half the ute owning population will scream “useless!”

Julian is employed by Wheatbelt Men’s Health as a community educator and, let me make it quite clear, the bloke is no slouch. Before he took up this post he was once Director of Agricultural Education.

Julian once had the misfortune to use this writer on road trips around the wheatbelt. We would hum into a town, park easily, and climb out to much amusement.

Why? Well, when sitting down in the cabin of the ute we may well have looked roughly the same size, but when out, he was a mountain and I was molehill.

Both of us know something about the risky behaviour of men and why we hand in our mortal coil long before our opposites in the gender business.

Just for example, take me. All right, I can hear you “Yes, please, take him!”

Recently I bought myself a sea-going kayak, one not built for the surf, but, of course, I had to give it a try and after the 25^th dumping, crunching and smashing, I decided it might be a good idea to respect the boat’s design flaws.

All this after last year’s incident with the neck.

My partner has been telling for years not to body surf because more than once I have speared my neck into solid sand due to my summersault exit technique and last year I did it again. The radiographer took one look at the pictures and said “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

Of course I had and I hadn’t stopped the risky behaviour because that’s not what men do and it’s why I have a shattered shin, a stuffed shoulder, a broken foot and a hammered hand.

When he’s not talking to, or about men, Julian lives a sedate life on an acre of land out of York. He shares it with his life-long partner but, if you drive out that way, you may well hear her yelling: “Put that potato cannon down, Julian, and come inside and act your age.”

Keep an eye out for Julian’s visit. The big man also has a big heart and he knows how hard it is to be a man in an ever changing world.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 24/5/2011

2011-05-29T14:39:00.001+08:00

When I tell people I have a kayak the first question they ask is: “Do you go on the ocean?”

And when I answer “yes”, they then say: “What about the sharks?”

Inevitably I pull a face and say something like, well, they are always there and as long as I go out with a couple of mates hopefully they will take one of them before me.

This is a joke, of course, because with my luck I will be the first to go.

So far we have never seen a shark and I have never spoken to an ocean-going kayaker who has ever confronted a shark, had an argument with a shark, or done a property deal with one.

And if you are a kayaker who has, please, by all means, keep it to yourself.

The thing is, there is nothing quite like doing the thing you love and right now I love getting in my little boat and paddling like the devil as far as I can until my body screams.

I am rarely alone. There are others like me. We are always well prepared.

The night before we pack our water bottles, our muesli bars, our chocolate bars, our thermos flasks, load our boats on car rooves, wake before the sun, rendezvous at water’s edge and head out. One of our little group is not quite up to the packing and his partner makes up a sweet something for him but we shall not mention that his name is Steve.

Once on the ocean all else leaves, the rhythm of the paddle takes over. My eyes wander the surface, but more than anything I love watching the bow of the boat as it cuts through the water making its little white waves on either side. It mesmerises, hypnotises and whatever it was I was thinking of, ever thought of, ever looked like thinking of, empties.

I paddle, bereft of thought, eyes on water and coastline, arms and shoulders working as though in a trance and every so often I look up as a magnificent creature of the sky flies by. So far, not one of them has left a calling card.

Sometimes we stop, look around, give thanks, count our blessings, share a private thought or two, then go like the clappers again.

Even on a mad and ugly day there is somewhere to launch your kayak in the Great Southern. An estuary, a harbour, a river, and it is a rare week we don’t find ourselves on water, floating in flow with the great oneness that is the heart and soul of this, the water planet.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 10/5/2011

2011-05-19T13:24:00.000+08:00

Not long ago local government was the domain of the tired and over the hill desperate for recognition before they packed their bags for the final journey, but not anymore. Have you seen the latest mob leading the way in local communities?

Take the current Lord Mayor of Perth, the 23 year old Lisa Scaffidi, who took over from the 107 year old bloke who was probably better known for keeping house for the deputy leader of the Federal Opposition, Julie Bishop.

All this came to a head last month when I met the 12 year old Brad Pettitt, mayor of Fremantle. He was elected in October 2009 and he replaced a bloke who retired to contest a seat in state parliament and I was reliably informed he had only recently finished primary school.

All right, I may have got the ages wrong but, as Mark Twain once said, I am not one of those people who, when expressing opinions, will confine themselves to facts and, besides, the occasional tweak helps you get my point.

And just in case you missed it, here it is again. It’s time for Gen Xers to take the reins of local government, wrest them from the clutches of the baby boomers and set about instituting policies that will save enough of everything and ensure they can put locally sourced milk, cheese, bread and fish on the tables of their grandchildren.

Mayor Pettitt is clearly a passionate man and when I asked him if the time was right for his generation he said: “I think we are seeing lots of bright and capable younger people ready to step up and I encourage that. When we get to work alongside those who are experienced that can be a great mix.”

Most Freo-folk I spoke to said they liked him. A couple said they were undecided, but everyone admitted it was great having a mayor who could surf, run 100 metres without calling for oxygen and someone who was not chained to an ancient code of local government dress or behaviour.

The night I shook his hand, for example, he spoke in front of 300 people wearing a shirt out of his pants, tieless and holding a bottle of tonic water.

And now I’m going to issue a challenge to all boys and girls, sorry, men and women, between 30 and 45 to step forward and offer themselves up to lead Great Southern communities. Pettitt reckons two terms is plenty: “One to learn the reins and one to put your ideas into practice.”

As for us, the baby boomers, most of us will welcome you gladly as we fade away disgracefully, amusing ourselves with coloured socks, silly hats and dancing wildly while screaming “Hallelujah Leonard Cohen”.

Right, race on, we’ve got about four months to find another Brad or Lisa. First prize is the city you want to live in in ten years time.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 26/3/2011

2011-05-02T07:31:00.000+08:00

Anzac Day is no longer the day it was when I wore short pants, long socks and a baggy cap and I am almost ready to join a throng paying their respects to those who are forever with us but no longer here.

Usually I pay my respects in the privacy of my own home, quietly, when no-one is around to hear me whisper to those I have known.

Unfortunately, my public Anzac Days were scarred at a very early age by people in authority who failed to adequately explain its significance, others in authority who engaged in inappropriate discipline and occasional ugly behaviour in public drinking houses.

As luck would have it, when my marble went in the Vietnam barrel it stayed low but being an Australian male imbued with a spirit of adventure and a need to inhabit a conflict somewhere, anywhere, I made my way to Israel.

I arrived early in 1973, fell in love with a soldier whose father chased me out of town, withered in exile and returned during the October War to work on a communal farm bereft of able bodied men and women and where all work was carried out by older men and women, volunteers, school children and soldiers home on leave.

I worked the orchards and because the manager knew I was Australian he gave me an M16 and a pistol and every day on the trek out to the fields I either drove or rode shotgun. In the middle of the night I stuck the pistol in my pants and guided a spraying machine up and down rows of apple trees.

Luck stayed with me and I never took a bullet, although one was aimed at me but missed as I hit the dirt and scrambled. My life was spared again by a man who shoved a shotgun in my mouth while I slept on private property not far from Tiberias. He thought I was an invader.

There were other incidents but the luck continued and I experienced nothing approaching the intense and relentless horror of war known to too many. My three years in Israel left me with a very clear view that living in a permanent state of war was no place to bring up children.

Something else stayed with me. It is that if a nation asks men and women to kill or be killed on its behalf, that when those warriors return home the warring nation should acknowledge that no soul leaves a war unscarred and it should guarantee life-long care.

Look out for me next year. I’ll wear a hat.

Sock It!

2011-04-26T11:30:00.000+08:00

Sock It!

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 12/4/2011

2011-04-17T17:51:00.000+08:00

Three weeks ago I was on Christmas Island. First, let me tell you how I got there.

I flew, naturally, from Perth, but on the way flight attendants handed out immigration and customs forms. Why? Good question. Don’t ask me.

Christmas Island was bought from Singapore in 1957 and since then has been an Australian Island Territory. It has two tiers of government, local and Federal. The local government must sometimes wonder why it exists, given the dominance of the Federales.

The Federal Government seems to think, for bureaucratic purposes, that when you fly over the Indian Ocean for a long stretch that you have left Australia, even though you have not touched ground and that you must, therefore, re-enter.

It is possible, apparently, while high in the sky, to pick up objectionable objects and, hard to believe I know, to exchange your nationality. In other words, l flew out of Perth Australian, but by mid flight I may well have become Mexican.

In addition, there’s a lot of shopping to be done mid flight and I’m not talking trolley-shop, I’m talking extra-terrestrial retail and all these goods must be checked and, if necessary, quarantined.

All this means that by the time you hit wet land, for in those climes rain is inevitable, you are pretty well over bureaucracy but there’s more, because Christmas Island is overrun with the creepy bastards.

Yes, they not only check you in, they also check you out all the time you are there and when you attempt to get a table at one of the local restaurants you are competing with short plump desk bound bureaucrats and tall buffed agents of control, or as we call them in Mexico, the Federales.

In all my days on the island I met many local community leaders, including executives from the Christmas Island Phosphate Company and not one single resident expressed any fondness for the Detention Centre. This is not to say there are not such locals, but all those I spoke to were keen for a return to fame for the wondrous and migrating red crab.

I could not agree more.

Christmas Island is a tropical paradise, a living breathing thing of beauty. What madness would want to transform it into a prison and contain folk deeply traumatised by their past, their present and, increasingly, their future?

It is the madness of disconnected governing. It is endemic. It belongs to all sides of all houses. The detention centre is a festering boil on the rump of a natural wonderland.

If we as a nation decide that we cannot turn these boats back from our shores, then we should bring them all the way to the mainland, to a place closer to us. Ideal locations, I believe, can be found in our national capital.

My local Canberra source, a highly credentialed chap I shall call Brian to protect his identity, has suggested a number of places.

His first choice was the Department of Climate Change Building in the city’s heart because “the government doesn’t seem to use it anymore”.

“And then there’s the new ASIO building,” Brian said. “It’s still under construction, but, let’s face it, spooks should be invisible anyway.”

Last on his list and my favourite is the old Parliament House, very close to the New Parliament House, a quick hop and step for a daily dose of how a truly thriving, vibrant, creative and sophisticated democracy works.

My guess is that in no time at all most of them would be screaming for a return ticket home.

Sock It!: ALBANY CITY INVADED BY WHITE ELEPHANTS

2011-04-12T08:28:00.000+08:00

Sock It!: ALBANY CITY INVADED BY WHITE ELEPHANTS

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 29/3/2011

2011-04-01T08:29:00.000+08:00

Yes, I am on Facebook, and Twitter, but not Myspace. I drew the line at that space.

Thanks for the question, yes, why would a man of this age be on such a new world, hi-tech, conversational stopping, human interaction distorting, internet jungle thing?

I wasn’t sure in the beginning, but now I am. Let me explain myself.

It all happened because of a man who married a cousin and he seemed so worldly by comparison to me, born and raised in Bridgetown, Manjimup and still raising in Albany. This cousin by marriage lives in the high flying world of Blackberries and iPhones. He said to me: “Get on Facebook, Jon, get on Twitter, it will help you sell your books.”

That was enough to get me excited, the prospect of pushing book sales into the stratosphere, all the way up the ladder to “Best Seller”.

To be fair, the book has sold well. To be honest, I don’t think Facebook and Twitter have done much. Although I am sure it resulted in at least three sales, but to three people I already knew.

Now here’s the real plus, a big one, and it all came to a head recently when I got this message: “Are you the Jon Doust who worked on a hop-farm out of Worcester, England, in 1972?”

My face exploded because I was that very same Jon Doust. There was no other Jon Doust but me. I was him. I couldn’t believe it was me. Sorry, I couldn’t believe it was her, Sarah, she found me, after all these years.

What would it all mean? The end of my current marriage? The rejection of all that had taken place in the interim, between when we met and now?

No, of course not, because we weren’t lovers, we were just the very best of friends. Sit back, relax, let me tell you the tale.

In 1972 I was madly in love with an Israeli soldier, but her parents pushed me away and I went all the way to the rolling green hills of Worcester, where I found work on a hop-farm run by a delightful and decidedly English family.

I lived in an old workers cottage with an Irish chap who only drank beer, only ate hazelnuts, and only washed the top half of his body. There was no electricity, no hot water, but there was a gas stove with one plate in working order. Outside our yard was a forest of stinging nettles and underneath the growth, a horse trough.

Stung, screaming, but determined, I cleaned out the horse trough and once a week I filled it with hot water I boiled on the single plate. I then removed all my clothes in front of a fire I built in the downstairs fireplace, ran for the trough, plunged, lay there until the cold hit, then ran back to the fire.

The police were called and I was incarcerated for sixteen years.

No, of course not, but Sarah and her mother were the kindest of folk and when the harvest was over they invited me into their 16^th century home where they plied me with scones, tea and all sorts of fresh and exuberant foods.

I stayed with them until the Israeli called me back. I never forgot their kindness.

And that’s why I love Facebook, because Sarah found me on it, and so did Debra, the New Yorker and Graciela, the Argentinean, Tania, the Israeli, and on and on the list goes and all these people who impacted my life, who I was sure I would never see again, are with me, every day I turn on my computer.

It’s a nightmare come true. And I enjoy every minute of it.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 15/3/2011

2011-04-01T08:28:00.000+08:00

Every so often I have a cup of tea with my old mate, Pete. But before I tell you about our last conversation, which got pretty low down and dirty, let me tell you about Pete.

Pete’s a Noongar and he’s crawled through a few mills in his time and been dragged through a couple as well.

There’s a lot I like about the old bugger, but, in particular, as is common with most of my friends, he has an over active sense of humour.

In his day he was a fine footballer, boxer, and charmer. He would, of course, still lay claim to at least the last.

Anyway, when Pete and I chat, we don’t beat around the bush, we get straight to it, whatever it is and this time it was about our health.

Earlier in the day I had spotted Len, another of my old mates, a retired farmer from Bruce Rock, but he didn’t want to talk. To be fair, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk, rather he didn’t want to talk about what I wanted to talk about – men’s business.

The thing was, that very day I was due a visit to the Big Clinic, you know the one along Stirling Terrace opposite the Police Station.

I suppose I shouldn’t have walked right up to Len and said: “Hey, Len, you ever had the ultra sound run over your private parts? Or your head examined?”

Frightened the hell out of him and he made a dash for the sand hills, with me yelling out at him: “What about a colonoscopy?” A lot of blokes are like that, like to keep that sort of thing to themselves. Not me and Pete.

We ordered our tea, had to be tea, we’re off coffee and sat back in what little sun was left in the day.

“So,” said Pete, “You’ve had your scrotum squeezed?”

See what I mean, he gets right to it.

I have to tell you, when we parted I felt a whole lot better, because Pete has also had the full range of men’s probes and both of us agreed it all came as a bit of a shock to hit the Big 50, because up until then we thought all the probing and squeezing belonged to women’s business.

As blokes we’d had it easy, right up to that first day when the doctor asked us to set a position on the table we had never set before and before we could say “Jack Thomson” the man you thought was your friend and confidant was invading your very being.

“I nearly hit him,” said Pete.

“What stopped you?” I asked.

“He was the footy club doctor and I took it all thinking I was doing it for the team. I was, but not for the Kangas, it was for us, manhood. I decided that from then on I would insist all my mates got the same treatment.”

Len, are you listening? It’s for the Man Team, all of us, not just you. So make an appointment, you grumpy old bugger.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 1/3/2011

2011-03-17T21:37:00.001+08:00

According to Clean Up Australia, WA’s beaches are the filthiest in the nation. In its annual missive Clean Up reports finding about 11000 items per WA beach site.

That’s not a good look.

Can you imagine 1100 items at Ellen Cove? Or even 1100 items between Ellen Cove and Emu Point?

I don’t know if Clean Up has a representative in the Great Southern but I reckon our beaches stack up well when compared to city sandies and most beaches along the western coast line.

That‘s not to say we can be complacent, or that we couldn’t do better.

On my usual jaunt one day last week I picked up quite a collection, including a single bra pad, four plastic bag fragments, a pair of boxer shorts, plastic goggles, two plastic cups, two plastic cup tops, one old doggy bag full of old doggy poo, six pieces of twine, two plastic forks, six hard plastic fragments, and a friend who stumbled as she left the water.

All Items I disposed off in the receptacles provided, except the friend, of course, because it was clear she had a few years left, was not cluttering the environment and was not likely to cause the death of a sea creature if swallowed in her entirety.

About 18 percent of all items found on WA beaches on national clean up day were metal and 10 percent were glass. The top five items were cigarette butts, glass pieces, alcohol cans and bottles, bottle caps and lids.

I don’t find a lot of cigarette butts on our major beach. There was a time when, if I saw someone walking with a butt in their hand, I would ask them nicely to dispose of it appropriately. I stopped after one chap invited me to his place for a barbecue and hinted that I would be expected to be the meat in the sandwich.

My top rubbish items collected on our beaches include plastic bag fragments and plastic bags, lolly wrappers, rope and twine fragments, plastic bottles, drink cups both cardboard and plastic and polystyrene fragments.

It also depends on the time of year. During a Great Southern summer I would expect to collect a lot of glass bottles, but with the weather in its current mood they have been few and far between.

There is one more item I must include on my list, balloon fragments. I didn’t get the balloon gene and am often left standing with a blank face while around me folk shift hot air from their lungs to pieces of flat plastic, blow into them until they are on the edge of bursting, then let them go so they can add yet another layer to the layer upon layer of human debris.

WA leads the country in waste, no other state wastes like us, but there is no doubt that the Great Southern leads this state in beach cleanliness and it is time we stood up and lead from the front.

Here are two things we could do. Create an active volunteer clean-up force, perhaps decked out in t-shirts emblazoned with “You drop litter, we’ll drop you.” Or, perhaps a little softer “Litter kills, don’t temp us.”

Finally, keeping on the front foot, why not become the first WA town to ban the plastic bag.

Crushed, but true to law of 'gaman' | The Australian

2011-03-17T09:29:00.000+08:00

Crushed, but true to law of 'gaman' | The Australian

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 15/2/2011

2011-02-22T11:46:00.001+08:00

The Doust Files on the 15/2/2011 was a re-write of a letter I wrote to Brendon Grylls. Here is the original letter.

Hon Brendon Grylls MLA

Minister for Regional Development; Lands
Minister Assisting the Minister for State Development
Minister Assisting the Minister for Transport
Parliamentary Leader of The Nationals WA
Member for Central Wheatbelt

Level 9, Dumas House,

2 Havelock Street,

West Perth WA 6005

17/01/2006

Dear Brendon,

As you probably know, I was born and raised in Bridgetown and I still receive the Manjimup Bridgetown Times, or, as I prefer to call it, the Blackwood Warren Times. The January 12 edition contains a piece by Adam Orlando. I don’t know Adam but he has obviously misquoted you.

National’s leader Brendon Grylls believes centralising the operations of Western Australia’s regional development commissions will make it easier for Royalties for Regions to be administered.

Haha, what a joke, Adam was obviously not listening. Does he not know that you are the Minister for Regional Development? Such a position, by definition, means you are not for centralisation, rather, regionalisation.

And you’re a wheatbelt bloke and know well and good that concentrating regional development in Perth is an insult, inefficient, costly, stupid, naïve and, if I may be bold, dumb.

Please, Brendon, get back to Adam and put him right, put him back on track, complain bitterly to his editor, make a statement in the house. Of course, you know what the problem is as well as I, centralisation. In the old days the paper was run, edited and subbed in-house. Now it all goes over to Bunbury.

I know you’re busy and I’m happy to help you out. Here are some major issues to put to the lad:

The centralisation of the control of RDCs to a Perth based department removes on ground, local, regional, RDC ability to be immediate, agile, responsive and locally accountable.
The new office will require new staff, new office space, and a cause a budgetary blowout. (Brilliant!)
Removing the ability of local CEO’s to deal directly with their Minster - the CEO will become a RBEO, a Regionally Based Executive officer - and will work under the Metropolitan CEO’s direction. (This, again, is a monstrous insult and budgetary stupidity because we all know what big shot, city-based CEOs want for their egos.)
And the funding? Where will that come from? The regions’ budgets or RforR money? In addition, will staff be transferred to Perth to fill the proposed new positions? (Oh, that’s a great idea!)

Of course, this has to be a political push from the Liberal hacks, the blokes who have no idea where cheese or potato chips come from, or what it’s like to wake up at 3am and have to run out in the cold and rain and help a sick cow give birth, and, no doubt, they are in the poor lad’s ear. For God and Region, Brendon, put a stop to this rampant idiocy. Or else. Oh yeah, you know how hard we play out here, you are one of us.

Meanwhile, let’s here more from you.

Some down here (Albany) are saying the Libs have swallowed you.

I don’t believe it.

I don’t think they have the stomachs.

Best, Jon Doust

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 1/2/2011

2011-02-22T11:40:00.000+08:00

What a year it’s been already.

Albany had one really hot half-day and in typical fashion rose to hell by 11am, then plummeted to a very pleasant heaven by 2.30pm and, in an attempt to enhance the cooling off, arranged for accompanying rain.

What else happened? Of course, Oprah came and went and her website suggests that WA is a “gem waiting to be explored” and that if you join us you can “swim with sharks”. There’s the tip, folks, you see any American tourists wearing an Oprah t-shirt feed them to the sharks. Sorry, show them where they are.

Oh, the Esplanade Hotel site was almost sold, nearly sold, but not yet sold and then there were no buyers on the horizon but some said it looked a lot better without those revolting, culturally offensive socks.

But let’s face it, all these and other local events and non-events don’t amount to a hill of asparagus when we recall the oceans of water that fell on Carnarvon and Queensland.

Given that we are part of WA, as is Carnarvon, you could be forgiven for thinking our media has not keep us as well informed as it might of events in our north. We are, however, swamped with news from Queensland and you would have to be a lump of 4 x 2 not to have been moved by the way Queenslanders and now Victorians have responded to their greatest floods in living memory.

Thousands of citizens have answered the call to spade, shovel and broom and fill the streets in their neighbourhoods and in other suburbs some distance from their own.

And as my old mate Len, the retired Bruce Rock farmer, said to me the other day: “I thought this country was bereft of leadership, but then both the Mayor of Brisbane, Campbell Newman, and Anna Bligh stood up.”

Love her or dislike her, there is no doubt the Queensland Premier has worked herself above and beyond and has looked real and knowledgeable even though denied normal patterns of eat and sleep and nice nights at home with the family. She has even been subjected to a rousing round of praise from her arch enemy, the Leader of the Opposition.

To be fair, other leaders of other parties from other places have visited, but none of them have left any impact other than that of folk out of place, out of depth, out of sync.

Just in case we had forgotten, Queenslanders have taken every opportunity to remind us: “We are Queenslanders and we are different.” If the rest of us on this vast continent don’t take notice, we are missing an opportunity.

And, finally, the tale that made me weep more than most, that of Jordan Rice, the 13-year old boy who was afraid of water, the quiet, reserved lad with the nickname Weedsy. Jordan was stuck on a car roof in a raging torrent with his mum and younger brother and when the rescuers arrived and chose to save him first he said: “No, take my brother.” They did and Jordan and his mum were washed away.

As Len said: “That boy may not have looked it before the floods, but he showed leadership qualities of the highest and ultimate quality.”

Let us not forget Jordan and try and make 2011 the year of keeping things in perspective.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 18/1/2011

2011-02-22T11:37:00.000+08:00

My hairdresser, Sandy, has a son. No surprise there, right, but he is also a plumber.

And as soon as I heard, right then and there, I called a halt to the snipping. I wanted his name, his number, his Facebook, uTube, email, MySpace, the lot, each and every way possible to contact him, to find him, to have him visit my house and fix all those little drips, drops and pipe screams that scare the hell out of you in the middle of the night that you have never fixed because you are an incompetent goose.

She looked me right in the eye, with her scissors held high and said: I will never ever give you my son’s phone number.

I was shocked, flabbergasted, perplexed. I asked her to lower the scissors, to calm herself, to take the comb handle out of my nostril and hear me out.

The thing was, I could understand her predicament. Everyone wants a plumber for a friend and that has been the gaping hole in my life in Albany: I have yet to befriend a plumber, a plumber’s son, or even someone who used to be a plumber.

Back in the Big Swirl, I had a great friend, Paul, who was a genius plumber. Paul and I were great mates. We drank coffee together, winged and wined together, went to local shows together and once, during a meal, we shared a toothpick.

All right, not a toothpick, a napkin, but we often shared a shovel.

If I had a plumbing problem, or a problem that in any way remotely looked like it had something to do with a pipe or a tap, I called Paul: he came, he saw, he fixed.

And he never charged. Unless there were costs. And if there was any heavy lifting, or digging, I did it, or we did it together. We were a team, but only at my place.

Like the time my French drain exploded and flooded our block, the block next door, and all blocks on the down side of the hill, with its foul contents, contents we denied all knowledge off.

For example, we don’t eat aubergine. Where the hell did that come from?

I rang Paul. He directed the digging. I dug. He came back. He fixed.

What a guy. But he lives in the Big Swirl.

I know what you’re thinking, that I took full advantage of Paul’s generosity and naivety and that the street was all one way, my way. Wrong.

Paul had the same rights. He knew my skill set and, if he had need of me, all he had to do was call out my name and he knew that wherever I was, I’d come running, to see him again.

Once he had me call a 20/20 cricket match from the middle of the field. That was fine until the Warriors’ Luke Ronchi came out to bat and he thumped a ball that caught me in the rear as I turned to make a dash for the boundary. Couldn’t sit for a month.

Paul was a great local sports organiser and he also had me work benefit nights with the likes of Chris Mainwaring and Kim Hughes, who signed a cricket batt with: Jon, don’t give up your day job.

Paul was well aware of what lay in my French drain and Paul made sure I took plenty of it in return.

What I’m saying is, if you are a plumber and you need a friend, call me, I’m here for you.

It will be a shame when that fence comes down

2011-01-19T11:46:00.000+08:00

This sign has mysteriously appeared on the fence surrounding the demolished Esplanade Hotel site, Albany WA..
Gone are the socks, the undies, the towels, the bras, but the Christmas tinsel remains and now this.
Just goes to show, you can't stifle comment in a democracy.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 4/1/2011

2011-01-11T09:05:00.000+08:00

Given it is that time of the year again, the one when our town is packed to the skirting boards with visitors, I thought it might be timely to offer a few tips.

The first set of pointers will be for those who have chosen to join us and before I go any further allow me, on behalf of the entire town, to welcome you and say that if you have any problems while here, please, don’t hesitate to call.

The second set is for us, the real locals, the wannabe locals and people who live here.

Visitors:

- No, you are not wrong, this town does not have one single traffic-light. Before entering a roundabout, park your car nearby, sit, relax and watch how the locals enter, move through and depart.

- Even better, park your car on the outskirts of town, call a taxi and ask the driver to take you through the system 10 times. Make sure you ask to see his or her Roundabout Tour Guide Certification.

- If one of your party passes on while you are in town don’t take them to the large mortuary on North Road. It is not a mortuary. It is, in fact, the Albany City Council.

- More than likely you have brought socks, fully intending to hang them on Albany’s famous Esplanade Sock Fence. Be warned, the Sock Fence has been declared a Public Menace, all socks removed and the culprits have been hoisted by their own petards.

- No doubt you have brought rubbish with you and will collect more while in town. Please dispose of it in the proper way. If you are seen littering, a large sea monster will rise out of the harbour and eat your parents.

- No, I’m sorry, we do not have a Big W. It’s been lovely seeing you, thank you for visiting, goodbye.

Locals:

- If you see a tourist entering a roundabout, the same one you are in, there is no need to show them a finger, or even fire a hand-gun at their wheels. Give them time, after one week they will probably use Aberdeen or Collie Street s. Or drive to Bunbury.

- The wonderful thing about tourists is that they have come to town fully intending to hand over most of their money. Let’s make it easy for them, be welcoming, try a smile and if they complain about the coffee, bring them another one and try not to spill it on their lap.

- If you meet a tourist who seems bored, tired of the magnificent scenery, the world’s finest beaches, the excellent local produce and superb cooking, the historic landscape, the brilliance of local musicians, visual artists and fine literary talents, take them out to Misery Beach and leave them there.

- If one of them approaches you in the street and asks where the Big W is, don’t use the phrase “Go forth and multiply.”

Finally, to both parties, please, do your best to get along, we don’t want a repeat of last year’s incident, the one involving the dead fish, the Volvo, the man with the wooden leg and the tree that used to be on Middleton Beach.

Oh, by the way, word is out that 2011 is going to be the best ever. Make sure you stay in it.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 21/12/2010

2011-01-03T16:54:00.000+08:00

It’s almost Christmas and, before you know it, it’ll be the next one. And they told us technology would give us more time. What a lot of poppycock. What a con. We have less time. Australians are working longer and harder than ever. We have to. We must. It’s imperative. Is it?

I remember it well, that day, about this time of the year, when mum asked me to ride into town to buy a fresh loaf of bread and a bottle of lemonade. I rode to the baker, bought the warm bread, all wrapped up in tissue paper, and was half way home before I remembered the lemonade so I turned back and it was only then I noticed my hand had been hard at it, ripping soft bread from the middle of the loaf and stuffing it into my open gob.

For a brief second I panicked, but then my clever little brain realised I had just enough for the lemonade and another loaf. I bought both while my hand continued to rip and stuff, rip and stuff.

Half way home again, belly bloated, I decided to lie down on the side of the road. I day dreamt, dozed and two hours later got up and continued on home. When I got there, mum was so busy in the kitchen she barely noticed me sneak in.

I often hanker for those days when time was timeless, meaningless and only one in five wore or could afford a watch.

Just in case you have forgotten, or never knew, time is a human contrivance. Nature doesn’t recognise it. We made it up. Skinks don’t know the time. Kangaroos couldn’t care less. As for magpies, well, they have a rough idea because they keep a close watch on all our comings and goings.

For those of you who feel a hanker coming on, here’s a tip for this Christmas: ignore the clocks and watches, don’t organise too much and try and find a soft grassy patch to lie on and let your mind wander.

Yes, life is short, but you don’t have to rush it.

My favourite festive periods were those spent at the family’s beach house in Safety Bay. Back then we might take a day to catch a feed, most of the night to eat it and around a week to clean up the mess.

Back in Bridgetown we lived on part of the original Doust farm which had been split among three brothers and some years all of us would gather at my grandfather’s and rip into what seemed a massive pig, laid out on a huge table with a granny smith in its mouth.

One of my uncles liked too many Sherries and the other one too many beers and a cousin had a hanker for whiskey. By the end of the day, and the pig, the grassy knoll was full of tired and emotional bodies flung out to dry.

Looking back on it all I have to admit my favourite festive days of all were spent on my brother’s farm, because by then we were all grown men with wives, sometimes new ones, and children, not always our own, but none of us had lost our love of action.

My brother would make a water slide down his back yard into the river and everyone armed themselves with water cannon, water bombs, buckets, anything to ensure no-one left un-drenched. The party ended one year when the brother brought out his fire fighting equipment and blasted an older family member into the river and we had to drive to Augusta to recover him.

Whatever you do this Christmas and Boxing Day, do it slow, do it with warmth in your heart and have a bloody good time.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 7/12/2010

2010-12-14T06:55:00.001+08:00

In an ideal world Paul Terry would still be with us and one of his gifts, the Esplanade Hotel, would still be standing. But he isn’t and it isn’t.

Ok, so let’s imagine another world.

In this world the hotel has been demolished following its purchase by a group keen not to offend the locals. The group builds a magnificent hotel that not only utilises the scenic setting but also takes full advantage of the potential for green energy. It features north facing windows, solar panels, wind turbines and aspiring young hospitality students from the Great Southern Institute of Technology (GSIT) are employed part-time earning credits for their diplomas.

The new building attracts visitors from all over the world, who take advantage of the abundance of activities programmed by students from the Adventure Seekers training course, also offered by GSIT. And let’s not forget the succulent menus presented by Australia’s up and coming GSIT trained chiefs, who train here because of our excellent wines and fine food. Right, too late for that.

Ok, so the site is bought by greedy property developers who have no respect for local customs and company executives decide to build a ten story block of holiday apartments. The City, desperate for something on the site, approves the plan, the building is built, despite widespread local offence, and when complete no locals are employed and the apartments are serviced by illegal immigrants.

Well, clearly, that’s an impossibility. It would never happen. No way. Not here, not anywhere in this beautiful state of ours. Let’s have another go.

The site is bought by a property developer who has every intention of doing the right thing, culturally, environmental, socially, economically, but, unfortunately, due to the Global Financial Crisis, the developer runs out of money. The site lies vacant for six months and the developer acknowledges publicly that it is not in a financial position to build its promised hotel and holiday resort.

In a move revealing the cultural and emotional intelligence of the company’s executives, they call for community consultation in an effort to determine what to do with the site while it lies vacant and dormant.

The community is enlivened, engaged, many meetings are held and most parties agree that the best solution would include a small bar and cafe, with the rest of the land to be landscaped and opened for public use.

Everyone is happy. The mayor is re-elected. The developer wins the National Community Project of the Year Award for 2012. All right, stop your sniggering. It could have happened.

One last crack and then I’m out of here.

You know the story up to now: the developer buys the site, knocks over an impressive building, cancelling a legacy, offending many locals, promises to build a space-age replacement, exciting many locals, nothing happens, many locals hang socks, developer tolerates the sock protest and, finally, the socks are removed by order of the city’s mayor, citing a very strong desire to sell the site and cultural offence caused to an unnamed culture.

Well, excuse me, but neither the City, nor the mayor, is in the real estate business and many people I know are offended by the removal of a cultural icon, have felt insulted by inaction on a site once full of celebration, and by the dismissal of their desire to make their views known in a creative, fun and non-violent form of protest.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 23/11/2010

2010-11-29T09:36:00.004+08:00

There were about 40 of us there, but only one of us rode a bike. There was a reason. It was raining prawns and parrots. And the single man who rode his bike boldly admitted he didn’t own a car and his knees didn’t like walking.

We gathered to talk about bikes and the city. Without exception, each and every one of us wanted more of them and more of the things that go with them, cycle-ways and bike racks. All this takes money, of course, but the possible benefits might surprise you.

Here are some Australian facts:

- More bikes were sold in 2009 than cars for the 10th consecutive year (1,154,077)

- 70% of bikes sold are mountain bikes

- In 2009 there was a 29% increase in the number of Australians who cycle to work

And you know what, no Australian town has yet pronounced itself Bike City. There is an opening, for a town to embrace the bike like no other, to become the Holland of the South. Maybe this is the move that puts Albany on the map, the bike map. And don’t sneeze, there is a bike map.

The mountain bike stats in particular interested me because I know a bloke who reckons the Great Southern is the perfect setting for a mountain-bike heaven. He told me there’s a world-wide circuit and Albany could become a Mecca for mountain bikers.

A quick check on Google revealed a number of mountain bike festivals around the world, with one in NSW, SA and Victoria but none in WA. There’s the opening. We could be it, Mountain Bike Capital of the West.

But let’s not just take the bike to the mountain, let’s take it everywhere. Don’t panic, you don’t have to love lycra to ride a bike. There are no lycra police stopping riders dressed as I am in old jeans and torn t-shirts.

Wait, there’s more.

Some of us make a lot of fuss about the cruise ships. Sure, they look lovely as they make their way into the harbour and the passengers provide some amusement as they stare in wonder at the town hall, but there’s even more money in bike tourism.

Murray Gomm works for the Munda Biddi Foundation and at this gathering of pedal bike enthusiasts he revealed that in New Zealand cycle tourism is worth more than cruise ship tourism. I thought that would make you sit up.

What we need is leadership on this matter. We need the Mayor, Councillors, local members of parliament, CEOs, private business owners, managers, farmers and home owners to get on their bikes, ride to work, to the beach, up Mt Clarence, down Mt Clarence and to both Saturday and Sunday markets.

Let’s fill the town with bikes and make Albany Australia’s first Bike City, full of cycle-ways, bike racks and cycle friendly shops, accommodation and transport providers.

Many of us at the meeting agreed that the City’s councillors should lead the way by riding to council meetings, hail rain or snow. That would show real leadership and they could hand back their petrol money.

There is no way, of course, that such a saving would pay back the city’s debt, but it would show the rest of us they are willing to make an effort.

THE SOCKS ARE OFF

2010-11-26T16:13:00.000+08:00

TO READ MORE GO HERE SOCKS

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 9/11/2010

2010-11-13T13:35:00.001+08:00

You probably have the flu, getting over it, or know someone with it. It’s nasty. I know that now. I‘ve just had it, for the first time ever.

Luck’s been with me, unlike the 30-odd million who died in the Spanish flu epidemic of 1918/1919. Then there was the Asian flu in 1957, the Hong Kong flu in 1968, followed by the flues we know well, the bird and the swine.

The negatives are obvious, but, for me, there were at least two positives. The first was that I realised I had never been sick before. Oh, sure, I’d had a sore foot, a busted shoulder, an infected finger, a cold, a headache, a 24-hour wog, but they were nothing compared to the swine called flu.

My particular version included violent headaches, chest pains, dry throat, no breath to speak with, move with, or argue over a hotel bill with.

At first, like many folk, I assumed it was just another cold and, because I was busy, I got on with things, none of that namby-pamby man-flu attitude with me. I got on a plane, then another, then another, and another still.

By the time I got to Victoria I was delirious. That was the tip that something really was wrong, because Victoria and delirious don’t normally go together. By then it was too late to cancel my engagements.

I arrived in Melbourne at 11.30pm. got in the hire-car, drove like an Albanian in Moscow, arrived at the hotel at 2am, climbed into bed, got up at 6.30am, got ready, arrived at my appointment, spoke to 150 testosterone riddled boys, got back in the car and drove east towards Sale.

And so it went: into a car, out of a car, into a hotel, no sleep, off to an engagement, back to a hotel room. What a life!

All this lead, naturally enough, to a worsening of my condition. I left Albany an idiot and arrived home a signed, sealed and certified idiot. Thank heavens for our doctors, because my local man said, plainly and clearly: “Yes, Jon, you have had the flu, but now you have pleurisy.”

Pleurisy? Brings back memories doesn’t it, of the Amity, scurvy, men and women huddling together in a hold, fighting over crusts of mouldy, rock-hard bread and tiny pockets of fresh air?

The second good thing about having the flu, or pleurisy, is that it requires a lot of lying down, sitting, staring into space, watching crappy TV, old comedy videos, or, as in my case, reading. So far I have read everything within reach, including a couple of Inspector Maltabano novels, a history of 1968 and all sides of a packet of rice flakes I found decaying in the back of a cupboard.

As I write this I am finishing the marvellous Love in the time of Cholera, by Gabriel García Márquez. This book I saved for last because Márquez writes with such rich colour and madness that reading it in the fullness and insanity of the flu may well have tipped me over the edge.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 26/10/2010

2010-10-31T17:36:00.000+08:00

Now we are well and truly settled in Albany, a number of things have become clear – we should have done it years ago, the weather is even better than we knew it was, and we never want to shift again.

We know a number of families moving house right and we have counselled them to take great care, because moving house not only brings out the worst in people, it can be dangerous to personal health and wellbeing.

It’s not a good start, for example, when the truck arrives to collect your stuff for the big move and the driver admits he hates shifting. My wife, our driver said, has made us shift five times and every time we shift we almost kill each other and that’s not the worst of it because she’s a Docker’s supporter and I’m with the Eagles.

Here’s the full tale.

Before the move I was in the bush and had to drive like hell to get back in time to load the truck. When I got home I discovered I was not as well advanced with my personal packing as I thought and so stayed up well past midnight packing books I was sure I would never read again, files I couldn’t remember the contents of and computer equipment that became obsolete just after Kevin Rudd started shaving.

Anyway, up first thing in the morning for the truck, no time for breakfast and hard at it long enough to realise that not everything would fit it the available carriers: the truck, the back of my station wagon, my mate’s half truck plus two-ton trailer and my wife’s sedan.

But, as is the way, when you have to leave you have to leave and so we left.

On the way I decided to take the long route through Bridgetown and pick up a spare gas heater from my brother the beef breeder. My sister-in-law, forever sensible and well meaning, suggested I stay overnight and rest. No way, I insisted, must be there with the sparrow to help unload the truck. I am a man and must push on for fear of letting down the truck-men.

I didn’t make it, because 45ks out of Manjimup, on the Muir Highway, a kangaroo, after a shocking week on the stock market, decided it could go on no longer and threw itself in front of my car. Not only did it take its own life, it took the life of my car.

There we were, kangaroo, car and me, stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing to show for it but a busted radiator, busted bonnet, busted body and busted ego.

Luckily a car soon arrived on the scene but as he slowed he looked and what he saw was clearly a demented man in filthy clothes, with dishevelled hair and wild eyes. He planted his foot and left me standing.

I thought, hang on, this is my country, people know me, so when the next car slowed I yelled out: Hey, Jon Doust here. I’ve hit a roo. The occupant, a decent and local man responded: Dousty, what the hell have you done now?

And that’s how I arrived in Albany, looking like a rat flying out of some kind of hell.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 12/10/2010

2010-10-18T14:28:00.000+08:00

We’re not big on anniversaries in this house. We never remember the wedding. Good reason too. It was a stinking Perth day, the groom was somewhat bruised from the previous night, the witnesses turned up late and the marriage celebrant was drunk.

But this one, we know it well. We love it. It’s our second year in the Great Southern.

It was not easy making the big move south. First we had to sell our house in the city and then we had to buy another house by the sea.

As usual, we didn’t do it the right way around. First we bought the house by the sea and then we tried to sell our house in the city.

I know what you are thinking: “Clever, innovative, imaginative”. Not really, because we chose to buy just before the market began to scream, kick and fight its way into a dive and we chose to sell as its plummet gathered momentum.

We are not, you see, the classic Baby Boomers. No, indeed, we sold our city house to a Y-Generation couple who didn’t have enough money to complete the transaction and they still don’t.

What’s more, we were not cashed up after years of real estate manoeuvres, or share market profits and I had not decided to retire from my advertising agency after selling it to a multi-national.

In short, we were a couple of late-starters who met on a communal farm in Israel during the hippy boom of the early-middle 1970s. Oh, don’t get me started on those stories.

Indeed, we belong to that group of Boomers who will have to keep working until the man in the suit comes to measure us for the box.

That’s ok with me because I’m one of those blokes who has difficulty sitting still and if there’s nothing to do I’ll find something and do it, or re-do something already done, or undo something so I can do it again. Or even write a column for a local newspaper about it all.

Oh yes, there are benefits. The beach is only three steps and one jump away and on a good day I can be there for three hours, walking one length, picking up human debris as I go, body surfing, then running back to the steaming hot showers like an old man who loves to run but his body wishes he wouldn’t.

Fishing is something I promised myself I’d get back to one but I haven’t yet. I’ve had offers, plenty, but they never confirm. What is it? Have they heard? Have they spoken to members of my immediate family who remember well my lack of patience and inability to sit still for ten hours on a dead flat ocean, only to come alive when the wind picks up and the ocean tosses us about like sardines doubled up in a tin for one layer only?

All this is because I grew up in a family that only fished or played tennis and when I hit eighteen I changed them for activities more in keeping with a young man who thinks he’s in the prime of his life.

I was wrong, the prime was up ahead. I’m in it now, I’m excited, I’m two years old.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 28/9/2010

2010-10-01T13:30:00.004+08:00

Over my long and illustrious-less career I have come to terms with the fact that I am not much good at many things, ok at a few and hopeless at a vast number.

Often people ask me: How does a bloke like you make a living?

And I reply: None of your bloody business.

Then, after I pick myself up off the floor, I answer truthfully: Essentially I make a living out of writing, speaking and acting.

All right, I know the next question? Acting? Do you know Russell Crowe? Or Hugh Jackman? What about Cate Blanchett?

No, but I have worked with people who have worked with people who have worked with them.

And I have worked with Jack Thompson. All right, not with him, but I once said “gidday” to him and ate breakfast on the same table during the shooting of one of the worst Australian movies ever made, Under the Lighthouse Dancing.

It all started in South Africa in the early 1970s when I was plucked out of obscurity by a German TV crew to star in a soft drink commercial.

I was chosen, of course, because of my serious good looks and my shock of Aryan blond hair.

I starred as a champion cyclist who rode his bike into a throng of seriously blond German models who threw themselves at me with soft drink in their hands, kissed my entire face and, once the shoot was over, dumped me like a sack of onions.

Then I was called on for an Afrikaans language movie, which entailed sitting next to the two stars at a rugby match and screaming “Achten tachta yoghurt asteblift”, or something that sounded a lot like that.

All this convinced me I had a big future in the movies and back home I scored major bit-parts in a number of Aussie films. Here is a short list: Justice, Thunderstruck and Needle. (It’s short because, well, it’s short.)

But, and this was my real Big Break, I have starred in many TV commercials. Oh, yes, everything from selling shoes, to lotto, healthy living, garage doors, and air-conditioning.

For the most part, people get that you are acting, but every so often someone misses the point.

I once took a phone call from a woman who was convinced I was a non-existent man called Doctor Coolbreeze.

I explained, with increasing agitation, that I was not a doctor, not an air-conditioning mechanic and, no, I was not coming to her house to fix her air-conditioning.

She was mortified. She would have been horrified if I had attempted the job, because no doubt I would have taken her house out with the entire ducted system.

So, in case you were wondering, given I’m on your screen sometime soon, no, I do not break into houses, I am not a cleaner of display homes, and I certainly don’t live in one with a much younger male friend.

And, finally, no, I am not a postman, I cannot fly a plane and I don’t work in a bookshop.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 14/9/2010

2010-09-22T22:34:00.002+08:00

In my line of work I have to drive a lot.

Moving to Albany was a perfect lifestyle choice, but not sensible for the making of a living to support that lifestyle. Travel is essential if you do what I do and as soon as I discover what it is, I will let you know.

These days, given I have history with kangaroos, I drive with a good deal more care and nowhere as fast.

When I say fast, I mean, of course, well within the speed limit of the section of road I am on at the time of asking. Or as near as I can get.

On the long drive there are many things to see and many experiences to be had. Some of the roadside signs, particular those mentioning the current targets of local police, have themselves been targeted.

In the old days, about a minute ago, the usual way to target such signs was to use them as target practice on your way to a fox hunt, but graffiti artists have made their way out bush and some of the signs, although politically incorrect, have caused a smile, sometimes joined by a chuckle.

One sign I spotted last year suggested local police were targeting “mullets”, while another warned that the police were targeting overweight people of the female gender, although not in those words.

We even have our own version not far out of Albany that clearly warns us we are in “Mafia Country”.

But the places causing the greatest mirth and pain, for this writer, are the motels. In particular, the internal designs.

Whoever designed the internals of country motels has never had to stay in one, sit in one, dry himself in one, go to the toilet in one, or lie in one, or then get out of bed in one.

And I say him because, please excuse any hint of sexism, I cannot imagine that a women designed such pokey, ridiculous places. They would surely have considered people, whereas the man who designed the places I occasionally stay in was only thinking of a bottom line and noting at all about the line of a bottom.

On countless occasions I have opened a door only to find myself trapped between two doors; sat on a toilet and had to get up to reach the paper dispenser; banged my shoulders, elbows and knees while drying myself following a shower that only directed water against a solid wall; tiptoed around a shattered glass shower wall; and made a cup of tea with the kettle sitting on the bed.

I was in one a month ago up in a wheatbelt town which shall remain nameless and no sooner had I entered that I felt like a kangaroos trapped in headlights on a wet and misty night in the middle of a road in the middle of nowhere.

I had no idea which way to turn and finished up trapped between a shower curtain, a toaster and a bed rail. I’m lucky to be alive.

The Doust Files, Albany Advertiser 31/8/2010

2010-09-03T22:44:00.000+08:00

Have you got your Rate Notice from the City of Albany?
Have you burnt your Rate Notice? Did you want to burn your Rate Notice? Did you want to stuff your rate notice up … a drain pipe?
I am tempted to ask if there was, perhaps, something else you might prefer to burn, but that may well hasten my arrest under the criminal code for incitement to riot, or cause havoc, or, at the very least, disrespect to legally elected representatives in a due and democratic process.
Which leads to me suggest what asses we are, you and me, the lot of us, including Len, my retired Bruce Rock farmer mate and Phoebe, my young and funky lawyer friend who yells at me from across the street.
What are we doing? Why don’t we stand up and make ourselves available? We would never have got ourselves into this mess. Would we?
I’ll tell you why, because it’s a thankless task, local government, any government. I’ve got mates in a couple of houses of parliament and every time I see them I say: “Get out! Now! While you still have a smidgeon of sanity and you still have at least one friend.”
Anyone going in should go in with a set term in mind, say six years. Then they should bugger off, go home, back to the farm, to the law office, open a gelato shop and give some other poor sod a go.
Nothing worse than watching tired old pollies hang on for dear life because that’s all they know, all they’ve ever done since the old days when they had a real job and they still think they have it, but they’ve forgotten what it is.
Well, there are a couple of things worse, like accidentally ironing your tongue, or being run over by a rotary hoe, or being forced to eat rhubarb with potato.
Watching the current Federal campaign has reminded me what is wrong with the grass roots: there’s no vision. Both leaders argue over the same policies, each one offering fifty bucks more than the other, hoping we will go: “Hey, wow, fifty bucks, that’s great. I can buy a new pillow.”
And that’s what’s wrong with local government, no vision, no grand plan, just knee-jerk responses to jerking knees.
As Pete, my Noongar mate often reminds me, Albany was the first wadjela (white fella) town on this vast west coast: “Surely we could make something of that by embracing the two cultures, make the town a symbol of transition. For a start, what about using Noongar and English in all signage and all visitors to the region to be welcomed by the mayor and an elder.”
Then there’s the brilliant idea I’m sure many of you have heard about to return Albany to its original name, Frederickstown, once a year, for one month and fill the place with activities and historical re-enactments.
Pete reckons Lockyer’s mob were late-comers and he’d like to go back to Kinjarling, the original name for the region, meaning place of rain.
These are big visions. They may not be your visions, but why not give them a try. If they don’t work, we could mix and match and try others. A town that continually re-invents itself would be exciting to visit.
Too many people over the last couple of weeks have come up to me and said: “What are you going to do about it, Jon, the rate hike?”
First of all I commiserate and then I say: “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, I’m going to write a column. That should make the buggers quake.”
There, I’ve done it. When they bring the rates down next year, you’ll know who to thank.

The Doust Files, Albany Advertiser, 17/8/2010

2010-08-22T07:38:00.002+08:00

At the time of writing this column, I am somewhat relieved to know that this most boring of elections is almost over.

Never have I known such a vacuous contest, with both leaders touting policies that could, just as easily, belong to the other.

Those of you at least as old as me will well remember the great contests of the past, even the 1962 stoush between the magician Menzies and the artless Caldwell makes this current bout look like something from World Championship Wrestling.

And who could forget Fraser versus Hawke, then Peacock up against Hawke, followed by Howard v Hawke, then Peacock again, then Keating versus Hawke, then Keating chucking cake at Hewson and, oh yes, Lazarus himself, Howard tumbling Keating.

What tussles. What drama. You could even, hard to believe I know, tell the difference between the party platforms.

My personal favourite was the Fraser Hawke clash of 1983 and I saved the entire election campaign in political cartoons.

In those days telex machines were standard issue in state government offices and I worked in one as a contract journalist.

Each and every day reams and reams of telex print outs were tossed in bins and then laid to rest in the Shenton Park garbage dump.

But not where I worked. I lovingly saved reams, stuck them on my cubicle walls and on their backs I glued every single political cartoon from the nation’s major daily newspapers.

The epic 1983 battle is probably best remembered for the carton by Ron Tandberg (Melbourne Age) of Malcolm Fraser with his pants down.

But how did we get to this contest, this inane slap-up devoid of real difference and absence of vision, where the only recognisable difference between the leaders is that one is a man and the other a women and even then we can’t be sure because they both wear pants?

Until they go to the beach, then it’s obvious, because one is clearly smuggling feral animals, which, by the way, is a Federal offence and I’m surprised he hasn’t been on Border patrol.

I blame Bob Hawke. Sorry, let me rephrase that, Mary Wheatley would blame Bob Hawke.

Mary was one of those champion country women who could darn a sock, ride a horse over a cliff, shoot a pig, strangle a fox, crochet a delicate doily, nurse a dying chook, and bake the best Pavlova ever.

What’s she got to do with it? She once said at a party up at our house in Bridgetown, while Hawke was still president of the ACTU, that he would be the next Liberal Prime Minister. We all laughed.

What she meant was, if Hawke gets in he will take us on a lurch to the right, which he did. And we’ve been lurching to the right ever since.

The two major parties are so far right that even Bob Menzies would be shaking in his grave, right alongside Malcolm Fraser, who isn’t there yet, but clearly sometimes wishes he was.

A few people I know are disappointed that Kevin “Elmer” Rudd and Malcolm “Mad Max” Turnbull are not facing each other. At the very least, the level of debate would be well above the current denominator.

Very few of us, of course, would have any idea what the hell they were talking about, but big slabs of me misses the drama, the difference, the facing off of two massive, delusional egos, tragically flawed and destined to fall and rise and fall again.

Oh, the good old days.

POSTSCRIPT:

It's all over now, but not quite.

Here are what I believe to be the best outcomes of the election: the rejection of Wilson Tuckey, the rise of the Greens, the election of a 20 year old, and the two major parties get what they deserve - hung!

Column 2, Albany Advertiser 3/8/2010

2010-08-07T15:52:00.001+08:00

Down on the beach I am known to many as “the guy with the cut off pants”.

Or “the guy who is always picking stuff up”. And sometimes, simply, “that guy”.

Those who walk regularly along that wonderful stretch of coast between Ellen Cove and Emu Point don’t have time to get names, we’re too busy walking, getting our daily, breathing that air direct off the Antarctic, embracing the Great Southern Ocean.

Yes, I said embrace, even at this time of the year. I can tell you, there is nothing more bracing than walking into the Great Southern and allowing the freeze to creep up your body until you no longer have any feeling below the waist.

Then there’s the first dive, oh, help me please. That’s when the freeze takes charge of your head and leaves you bereft of thought, sensibility, memory, or taste and when you are done and the ocean spits you on the beach like the rag you are you run like hell for those hot showers.

Who is responsible for those hot showers?

This person should be nominated for Citizen of the Winter Months.

I love this person. I will care for this person in old age and deliver chocolates and garlic to his or her door on demand, on request, at any time of day or night.

Excuse me, I left the scene of the column. This offering was to be about the debris I find on the beach. Deviations, be warned, will occur regularly.

The debris gets to me. I can’t help myself. Have to pick it up.

In the beginning I only picked up the big stuff, the plastic bags, nappies, tin cans, plastic bottles, large lumps of poly something or other and large clumps of fishing line.

I walked by the small stuff, thinking, well that won’t cause any harm. It won’t kill anything.

Then I read about the swirls. The swirls changed my attitude. Now I pick up every single item, no matter how big, how small, even if it’s not there and I can’t see it.

What are the swirls? Good question.

Out there, in the big blue yonder, as you can imagine, people are dumping all kinds of trash into bays, off ships, into rivers, drains and much of it finds its way, eventually, in to our great oceans.

And when it gets there it floats along, inanimate, sometimes swallowed by an unsuspecting fish or mammal, but often just floating, drifting in the currents, taken along by ocean movement, until it meets a swirl.

A swirl is an eddy like current that collects stuff and sends it around and around and around forever and ever.

They are like cities of waste in the middle of the Pacific, Atlantic and Indian oceans and to attempt to remove them would be to cause havoc and destruction to all other creatures in the immediate vicinity.

There are a number of massive swirls in the planet’s great oceans, packed tight with human debris and there is not a thing we can do about it, except hang our heads in shame.

Oh, two other things: don’t dump your stuff and, if you are not a dumper, do the planet a favour and pick up the dumpers dumping as soon as you see it.

Ps: From now on I will refer to Perth as The Big Swirl and Canberra as The Pig Swirl.

COLUMN 1

2010-07-28T07:07:00.002+08:00

This was the first of my new columns, published once a fortnight on a Tuesday in the Albany Advertiser, Western Australia. It had to happen, bound to happen, because I like writing a column. But once a fortnight? Yes, this gives me time to finish a book, to surf, run, drink tea with friends and make a living. Oh, by the way, I have started another blog, just about socks, and all forms of public art protest. You can follow it here SOCK IT!

And now, the new column:

An election? Oh, no, not again.

Didn’t we just elect a bunch that were going to fix all the problems created by the last mob who said they had fixed all those created by the previous mob but there were a couple left over and we’d better elect them again because the others might really stuff them up, instead of just muck them up?

My Dad once came back from Mexico with a smile on his face. He said: “I met this tourist guide in Mexico City who had the perfect political solution. He said whenever they elected a decent politician, the first thing they did was shoot him.”

Dad thought that was the funniest thing he had ever heard.

Now, I don’t want you to think my Dad was some kind of hippy revolutionary, far from it. He was a solid citizen, businessman, farmer, Rotary Paul Harris Fellow and chairman of the Bridgetown Hospital Board when hospitals were run by sensible, normal people who could remember when they had their tonsils removed.

Stan, the man, my Dad, would not have liked Kevin Rudd. He would have wondered what the hell he was talking about every time he opened his mouth.

He would have thought Tony Abbott was internally conflicted, stood too close to you when he talked and needed to cut his “arrr” output by about 97%.

As for Julia Gillard, well, I’m pretty sure Stan would have been excited by the prospect of a female leader but he would have been concerned about her naked ambition. And he might have made comments that some would have found offensive.

He was, for many years, a member of the Liberal Party, but he never left a gathering without stirring the pot by making fun of something, or someone, Liberal.

He was, in short, a normal Australian bloke with a larrikin sense of humour.

I remember saying to him once, after listening to him complain about the government of the day, which happened to be Liberal: “Hey, you voted for them.’

Quick as a flash, he replied: “No I didn’t.”

Which surprised the hell out of me.

“Who did you vote for?” I asked.

He never told me and went to his grave without telling a soul.

Because, you see, he belonged to that generation that firmly believed you should never discuss politics, sex, or religion. The first fascinated him, the second he thoroughly enjoyed and the third left him asleep in a back pew.

Whenever there is an election in the offing, I always think of Stan. On the first occasion I put my hand up, for no particular reason other than to fill in the time I had available, Stan loved every minute of my madness.

He even admitted to voting for me. The silly old bugger knew I didn’t have a hope in hell but that was the year Paul Keating went up against John Hewson.

Stan reckoned Keating had a touch of megalomania and that Hewson would have been better off if he’d sent his wife out ahead of him.

Throughout this election campaign I will be calling on Stan’s humour, sarcasm and disbelief. If you stay with me, we might just make it through.

This will make you laugh

2010-07-08T17:11:00.000+08:00

THE LATEST SOCK NEWS

(click on above link)

Guess what? Hanging socks works

2010-07-06T20:26:00.001+08:00

For more, go here: SOCK IT!

The 2010 Sydney Writers' Festival

2010-05-26T10:23:00.001+08:00

IT'S all over now.
This particular writer is exhausted, inspired, liberated, berated, chastened, hastened and slumped.
My back hurts, my neck hurts, my feet, my hands, most bits.
Why?
So much time spent sitting, in your own sessions, in other people's sessions in planes, buses, taxis. Not good for the back, Tony.
(Have no idea who Tony is, but the name came to me so in it went.)

HIGHLIGHTS
Being insulted by Alex Miller (Lovesong) as he bought me a cup of tea.
Listening in to Tom Keneally, Michael Cathcart, Richard Glover and Jack Marx as they wended they way through Australia's past.
Sitting in a big hall watching and listening to John Ralston Saul, Michael Cathcart, Deborah Snow and Tony Kevin as they named The Five Things the World Needs to Change. Tense.
The final address by Peter Carey when he insulted us, the entire nation, said we were dumb and getting dumber. No-one disagreed.
Then there were two sessions I participated in.
One with Susan Maushart (chair), Richard Glover (ABC radio) and John Dale (crime writer and novelist).
It was our job, the men, to examine ourselves and discuss masculinity.
It was Susan's job to lambaste us and make us look silly.
We all succeeded, with great humour.
For more, click: Masculinity
Then there was a delightful session on memoir with two fine writers: Brenda Walker and Mark Tredinnick.
For more, go here: Memoir

It was a fine festival and run with charm and calm by Chip Rowley and his team of yellow shirts.

Jon Doust with Lone Frank, author of Mindfield.

Brenda Walker, Reading by Moonlight, Jon Doust Boy on a Wire, Mark Tredinnick, The Blue Plateau.

WHAT A GREAT IDEA

2010-04-15T01:03:00.003+08:00

A suspected Urban Sock Bomber has made application for the notorious Esplanade Hotel Site Sock Fence to be listed by the Heritage Council of Western Australia.
If listed, the developers will be unable to build on the site due to the listing.
It is not known weather the Heritage Minister Mr John Castrilli will take an active interest in the application, or, in deed if he has ever heard of the Esplanade Hotel Site Sock Fence.

It is also not known if the Sock Bomber involved refused to be named, or could not remember his name.

THE FIGHT IS NOT OVER

2010-04-13T18:22:00.000+08:00

ELEANOR HALL: Australian apple growers are warning today that if the World Trade Organisation has overturned a ban on importing New Zealand apples it could crush the local industry.

Media reports that the WTO will lift the 90 year ban are yet to be confirmed.

But apple growers are already warning about biosecurity and there also questions about whether the ruling could pose a broader threat to Australia's strict quarantine regime.

TO VIEW FULL REPORT: abc

Jesus help us! Someone. Anyone. You ...

2010-04-09T10:54:00.004+08:00

Read this.
Be afraid.
Do something about it.
Sign this petition
Click on this website (extract below).
And email them: IRAAP@daff.gov.au

BAA 2010/08-Provisional final import risk analysis report for fresh apple fruit from the People?s Republic of China

This Biosecurity Australia Advice notifies stakeholders of the release of the Provisional final import risk analysis report for fresh apple fruit from the People’s Republic of China.

The provisional final import risk analysis (IRA) report recommends that the importation of fresh apple fruit to Australia from China be permitted subject to a range of quarantine conditions.

The recommended quarantine measures include area freedom and a systems approach to manage quarantine pests and diseases, supported by an operational system to maintain and verify the quarantine status of consignments.

Here's my email:

Dear people,

Your provisional recommendation to import Chinese apples is nothing short of insane.

Apart from the false pricing of such importations, a price structure that kids the global economist into believe that he can land fruit cheaper into Australia than it can be trucked from the town next door, what about the carbon footprint?

What about the unknowns?

What about fruit quality?

What about fruit life?

What about this “The provisional final IRA report identifies 16 quarantine pests (11 arthropods and five diseases) that require quarantine measures to manage risks….”

Why take a chance?

Yours,

Ex-fruit grower,

Related to many fruit growers

Buyer of local fruit, only

Jon Doust

Albany WA

Doust at the Sydney Writers' Festival

2010-03-29T14:35:00.003+08:00

When I’m Not Writing, I ...
Thursday, 20 May 2010
Start: 13:00
End: 14:00
Venue: Sydney Dance Company, Studio 4
Pier 4/5, Hickson Road
Walsh Bay
Facilitator:
Event Type: Panel
Jon Doust, Joe Meno, Lone Frank and Ali Cobby Eckermann talk about the
other passions and interests in their lives.

Reading Muster 4
Date: 20/05/2010
Start: 16:00
End: 17:00
Venue: Sydney Philharmonia Choir Studio
Pier 4/5, Hickson Road
Walsh Bay
Facilitator: Jill Rawnsley
Event Type: Reading
Australian writers pass the word around, reading their own work.
Emily Maguire, Steven Amsterdam, Fiona McGregor and Jon Doust are rounded up by our Drover, Jill Rawnsley.

On Masculinity
Saturday, 22 May 2010
Start: 10:00
End: 11:00
Venue: Wharf 2, Sydney Theatre Company
Pier 4/5, Hickson Road
Walsh Bay
Facilitator: Susan Maushart
Event Type: Panel
What’s entailed in being a bloke in Australia today? Richard Glover (The Mud
House), Jon Doust (Boy on a Wire) and John Dale (Leaving Suzie Pye) tell chair
Susan Maushart.

This year's Miles Franklin Long List

2010-03-29T12:05:00.001+08:00

Lovesong	Alex Miller	Allen & Unwin
The Bath Fugues	Brian Castro	Giramondo Publishing
Jasper Jones	Craig Silvey	Allen & Unwin
Sons of the Rumour	David Foster	Pan Macmillan
The Book of Emmett	Deborah Forster	Random House
Siddon Rock	Glenda Guest	Random House
Boy on a Wire	Jon Doust	Fremantle Press
Figurehead	Patrick Allington	Black Inc. Publishing
Parrot and Olivier in America	Peter Carey	Penguin Group (Australia)
Truth	Peter Temple	Text Publishing
Butterfly	Sonya Hartnett	Penguin Group (Australia)
The People's Train	Tom Keneally	Random House

The Miles Franklin Award

Something Afoot in Albany

2010-03-16T10:21:00.004+08:00

The following piece was received by his blogger from an anonymous source well known to him. This piece, let the blogger make it quite clear, was not written by him, but by the anonymous contributor, henceforth to be known as "Sock Man".

It’s common knowledge that our dear council (Albany City, WA) can’t afford to fund a tea-party, let alone the shortfall of a fully operational, publicly subsidised, modern, on-a-plate-gifted, entertainment centre.

Why is this? Because on top of some serious long term, systemic financial mismanagement, their investment policy allowed them to put all our eggs in one basket. Sadly, they picked the wrong basket.

They were sucked in by the promise of better than market returns. About half a per cent better that is. Or would have been if they hadn’t had to factor in the capital loss, which turned the return somewhat negative.

And now they’re sitting on a fence waiting, having knocked back offers for the ‘investment’ at a discount of seventy per cent, in the hope that some bumbling, idiot solicitors can negotiate a better settlement with the liquidator of a fallen Wall Street icon.

(Is it strange that only Lehman Brothers was allowed to fall over? I wonder if LB was the only bank that had the majority of its exposed investors sitting away from American soil.)

Have they any idea how fat the liquidators are? Have they any idea how fat the solicitors aim to become? What should we do in such a situation, apart from re-inventing our investment policy – assuming we ever have anything to invest again?

We’d look at who got us into this mess and see that they still have some cash in the bank and sue their arses off or, in this case, their asses: Standard & Poors, Moody’s Investor Services and any other incompetent ratings agency that gave the sewer-scented, over-leveraged mortgage-backed securities a triple-A rating.

They’re the guys who weren’t doing their jobs. They were the guys that allowed the mushroom growth of these smouldering incendiaries. So, it stands to reason, they’re the guys to sue.

The facts:

- they’re still in business

- they make millions of dollars extorting companies and governments to dole out cost-effective credit ratings

- they’re more than likely liability-insured, albeit by American Insurance Group.

Conclusion: they’re the people to sue. If only for the joy of seeing the sanctimonious bastards squirm.

All in all, I find the council’s inability to invest our reserves and subsequent fence-sitting a little bit on the nose. Just like the socks surrounding that iconic Albany site, the Esplanade sand patch.

Have you seen them there? Socks, socks and more socks, dancing in the breeze, like Tibetan prayer flags on a high plateau in the Himalayas. Spooky it is, wandering at night around the cyclone-meshed compound, watching them stream out. Little hands imploring your help.

I even wonder what the fence is there for. To stop us stealing the sand, perhaps? Or is it merely a “Keep Off, It’s Ours” gesture.

Whatever, it’s obvious they’re not going to rush into replacing our lost pub and equally obvious the combined might of City of Albany and Department of Racing, Gaming & Liquor can effect no leverage to change that.

Perhaps we need more than socks. Perhaps we, the people, should take it, the fence, down as the Berliners did back in the 80’s, and establish our own freedom over this most splendid of sites and indulge in that noble Australian tradition of squatting. I believe our uninterrupted use for ten years would see them lose possession.

Ownership would then cede to the USB (Urban Sock Bomber). And the sockless of Albany can boldly step forward to claim their share.

The socks will not go away

2010-03-10T09:59:00.000+08:00

Do socks breed?

2010-02-23T12:12:00.004+08:00

ALBANY
Tuesday

THE wild and crazy sock fence is loosing all inhibition.
A spokesperson for the Urban Sock Bombers (USB) said that local people had now embraced the fence to a "very high degree".
"Sometimes we go down there late at night to fill another couple of fence panels and we are amazed at the number of new items wafting in the breeze," she said.
"And we when we go to the beach the next morning, we also note the new items that were hung after we left."
These include bras, towels, t-shirts, underpants, thongs and neck ties.
The fence is still predominantly festooned with socks, but an ever increasing range of styles, colours, and eras.
"What is even more interesting is that tourists from all over the globe are now taking photographs and even giving up their socks for the protest," the USB spokesperson added.
"I was at a music concert last week and the MC mentioned the sock fence and patrons immediately began removing their socks and handing them over to USB representatives.
"It was very moving moment."
Another USB insider said he had spoken to people from Melbourne, Idaho, the Philippines, Guatemala and The Virgin Islands.
"All claimed they would go home and send socks," he said.
"Someone said they heard Jay Leno had mentioned it on his top rating American talk show and another said they thought it had been brought up in the United Nations General Assembly."
Whatever the truth or otherwise of such statements, what is clear is the the Albany Esplanade Sock Fence has made a tired and easily bored world sit up and pay attention.

Urban Sock Bombers

2010-02-15T06:32:00.000+08:00

2010-02-08T10:11:00.000+08:00

2010-02-08T09:57:00.001+08:00

2010-02-08T09:43:00.000+08:00

SOCKS

2010-01-29T11:03:00.004+08:00

ALBANY
West Australia
January 2010

FOR over three years owners and developers of the old Esplanade Hotel site on prime real estate patch, Middleton Beach, have promised to build a brand new luxurious complex.
So far?
Nothing.
The future?
Nothing.
The permission to build has lapsed and there are no plans before the City Council.
This means, nothing.
A small, but tireless group, referring to themselves as the Urban Sock Bombers, USB, have taken to the perimeter fence with glee.
And socks.
And what a difference it makes.
Already one bus loaded with bemused tourists has been seen to stop and set free its inhabitants, who then proceeded to clamour, click, click and click.
Head USB, who wished to remain nameless due to fear of an avalanche of sock-bomb site offers, said that it all began as a public art project.
"Our intention was to say, through the sock display, 'This site stinks'.
"It has now taken on a life of its own and it is my firm belief that it could become a tourist attraction and have an economic impact on the town."
As the sock wall grows, others have begun adding peripheral items to the wall. The USB chief asked that these folk create their walls on other fence panels.
"We want to maintain the integrity of the sock," he said. "If they want to put other items up on our side of the fence, they should bugger off, or put a sock on it."
It will come as no surprise to many observers of political movements that, even at this early stage of the urban guerrilla campaign, there are already ructions and splinter groups are forming.