I am not an economist, but some things just don’t add up. Forty years ago when I did economics at high school I was told by my teacher that robust economies should never have a surplus. This is because the world of international finance thrives on deficit: deficits are good because they encourage international lending and domestic spending. This in turn promotes domestic and world-wide wealth and prosperity.

Was my economics teacher wrong, or have things changed in 40 years?

I suspect he was right. I also suspect that the Australian government is so out of touch with reality and with the wishes of the Australian people that they have forgotten their high school economics. For some obscure reason, Julia Gillard and Wayne Swan believe that moving in just one year from a 45 billion dollar deficit to a 1.5 billion dollar surplus will get them back into government at the next election.

How lame-brained is this Gillard Labour government? In order to create a surplus they have taxed the mining sector to the hilt, cut armed services spending by more than 4 billion dollars, as well as much needed assistance to state governments. All the state premiers are angry and disillusioned, and well they should be. For the sake of winning the admiration of all the other world leaders and of winning an election next year, the Gillard government has thrown the country into economic turmoil.

Gillard and Swan claim that they were able to bring this miracle about because of the mining boom. If it’s the mining boom that has been responsible for this surplus, shouldn’t we be encouraging the mining sector rather than taxing it into oblivion? There is nothing wrong with having a deficit, Julia. In fact, I believe that most Australians would have preferred a deficit, along with a little more generosity towards state governments to help fix our ailing roads, hospitals, police forces, schools and public facilities. This in turn would create jobs, prosperity and general well-being – and even a little goodwill towards our failing government.

The Gillard government I believe has made yet another terrible error of judgement. I can’t wait for the election. I wonder how many more errors of judgement they’ll make in the mean time.

I watched the much advertised ‘The Voice’ a couple of times last week. Some parts I liked, some parts I hated.

I believe ‘The Voice’ is severely flawed. If it is a genuine talent quest, how come the best voice in the contest by a country mile (Mahalia Barnes) was knocked out in the first round?

The idea of having the four judges with their backs to the performers in the opening round was a good one. We are all influenced by what a person looks like as well as how they sound. If they were searching for a great voice, rather than an all-round media star, they were on the right track there.

But then to pit one performer against another in a sudden death ‘boxing match’ was, I believe, the height of stupidity. The loser gets no more chances, even if he or she is the best performer in the competition.

This is exactly what happened to Mahalia Barnes. Undoubtedly the best voice in the competition, she was pitted against her best friend who just happened to find a song that suited her voice and her personality. I also believe that Mahalia, being a gentle, compassionate person and a loyal friend, felt restrained by having to compete against her best buddy. She subsequently did not put her heart into the song. 

If Mahalia were to be given a second chance, there is no doubt that she would win the competition. What is to stop the producers of this show from having a ‘first round losers’ round, which gives people like Mahalia a second chance? This would add a great deal more interest to the show and provide some much-needed fairness for the competitors.

I rest my case.

So we have rumours of yet another leaderships spill in our Federal Labour Party.

It must be obvious to everyone, including blind Freddy, that  Labour cannot win the next election with Julia Gillard at the helm. I read an article in yesterday’s paper where a political pundit was suggesting possible replacements for Julia. His suggestions made me want to cry.

Kevin Rudd? You’re kidding. Kevin has made his run and done his dash with both his party members and  the general public. His run is well and truly over.

Simon Crean? You MUST be kidding! Simon has been there and done that as leader many years ago, when he failed miserably.

Wayne Swan? Oh no! This is really scraping the bottom of the barrel! Leave the best treasure in the world where he is. He is not a leader.

Bill Shorten? Surely not. The man is still wet behind the ears in terms of political experience. Highly ambitious, but not ready for leadership for at least 10 years.

 Bob Carr?  No! No! No! Bob is a recycled State leader who is undeniably past it. Leave him tucked away as Foreign Minister and keep him out of our hair. Let some foreigners suffer his pinched expressions and his cringing personality.

Why has nobody mentioned Stephen Smith? Here is a man who has been in politics for 19 years. He is articulate, intelligent, strong-willed, transparently moral, highly dependable and popular, both within Caucus and in the electorate. And I believe he has great leadership qualities. I loved the way he showed his strength and his mettle when facing the Australian generals over the recent sexual abuse  charges in the armed services.

I believe Stephen does not want the job. That’s understandable. Who would want it right now? As Kevin Rudd has said, it would be a hospital pass (thank you Jack Gibson). But someone has to do it. A new leader who takes Labour into the next election and wins a few seats will probably not lose his job. He can start working towards winning the next election in 3 years time.

Come on Stephen: put your hand up!

I just heard about the latest incident regarding Bert’s boy, Matt. I viewed security camera footage of him punching a shop attendant, scuffling with him on the floor and then lying with him on the floor, apparently trying to talk to him. This was followed by footage of him throwing a phone at another attendant.

This is just another incident in a long list of misdemeanours that Matt Newton has been involved in over the past couple of years. I saw an interview with radio and TV personality, Steve Price on Channel Ten’s ‘The Project’ yesterday. Mr Price appeared upset and disgusted at Newton’s behaviour, saying that he was sick of giving Matt more chances. He claimed that Bert and Pattie Newton continually went on TV, trying to excuse and justify their son’s behaviour. Price claimed that Matt Newton was nothing more than a spoilt kid.

I was appalled by Price’s attitude and comments. He has obviously never had a member of his family who has suffered from mental illness. Matt Newton is mentally ill. He suffers from bipolar disorder which causes the victim to experience extreme highs and extreme lows, during which times, he loses control of his logic, his emotions and his physical ability to deal with disturbing stimuli.

Matt has been in the USA seeking help for his disorder, where it was assumed he could remain anonymous. Unfortunately for Matt, things did not turn out as expected, and he has now received more media attention than ever before.

I am deeply concerned for this young man. I firmly believe that if he does not get immediate help for his condition, his life is in danger. If he were to be sent to prison, the result could be disastrous. What he needs right now is to be committed long-term and full-time to a mental institution where he can get appropriate psychiatric help for his condition.

The suicide rate of young Australian males is the highest in the world. Why should this be so in a country with so much to offer its young people? There are two reasons. One is the unealistic expectations we have of our young males and the other is our lack of understanding and compassion about mental illness.

Matt Newton has been born into entertainment royalty. Many Australians believe he has been born with a silver spoon firmly lodged in his mouth. I disagree. I see in Matt a young man who has had to bear the highest of expectations from his family and from the Australian public in becoming a successful entertainer and actor. His mental illness has prevented this from happening. Right now he must feel an abject failure. He sees no solution to his problems.

I hope and pray that I am wrong.

I heard on the news today that Schapelle Corby may be given an official pardon. Ten years may be wiped off her sentence and she may soon be home, free at last.

A great deal has been said and written about Schapelle and her family. There has been much conjecture about her guilt. Was she covering for another member of the family? Was she an habitual drug user and smuggler? Was she just a very unfortunate young woman who tried just once to smuggle some marijuana into another country and was unlucky enough to get caught? Did she even know there was marijuana in her boogie-board bag?

These questions have been the subject of much heated debate over the eight years Schapelle has spent in prison.

I have a very strong view about Ms Corby’s situation. Here is a young woman in the prime of her life, who has landed herself in a Bali prison for eight years in conditions that we cannot even imagine. There are reports that she has suffered a mental breakdown as a result of her incarceration. Regardless of her level of guilt, my view is that she deserved a great deal more from the Australian government during her ordeal. The Howard government, then the Rudd-Gillard government did virtually nothing to support her in her time of need. They did not intervene with the Indonesian government on her behalf as I believe they should have. They could have arranged for her at the very least, to have served her sentence here in Australia. But they chose to do nothing.

And of what was she found guilty? On one single occasion she was found to have a quantity of marijuana on her possession – an offence which in Australia, would have resulted in a slap on the wrist. Regardless of her lifestyle, her family, her background, this young woman deserved better from our government.

Schapelle Corby will always bear the scars of her ordeal, physically, mentally and emotionally. Imagine if she were your daughter or your sister or your wife? How would you feel? 

I would like to hear your views.

The terrible death of a young lifesaver on Currawa Beach this week has once again resulted in conflict and controversy: the third young surf lifesaving dying in the same event on the same beach over a period ten years. Surely something is very wrong with this event and surely the organisers are to blame.

Last night I put my views to my son who is a keen surfer. He was very quick to defend the organisers of this event. He put it to me that it was people like me who didn’t understand surfing and surf lifesaving, who were responsible for laying the blame unfairly on the organisers’ shoulders.  

He explained to me that the reason three deaths have occurred on the one beach is because it is the best beach available for  such an event. This is where all the elite lifesaving carnivals are held, just as Bathurst is where all the premier car-racing events are held.

‘Then it is obviously an unsafe venue and a safer venue should have been found,’ I countered.

‘Any surfer will tell you that Currawa is the best lifesaving beach in Australia, not only because of it’s prime position on the Gold Coast but because it has the best double breakers anywhere in Australia,’ he replied.’This makes it perfect for surf carnivals.’

‘There was a coroner’s inquiry after the last death,’ I said. ‘And it recommended that safety vests and helmets should be worn at all lifesaving events at this venue. The organisers failed to do this, which I believe amounts to negligence in the extreme.’

‘Wrong!’ he retorted. ‘Have you ever tried wearing a helmet in the surf? It’s impossible. And safety vests make their lifesaving manoeuvres extremely difficult.’

‘But the organisers were warned by some of the lifesavers that the beach was too dangerous on the day,’ I said. ‘And they went ahead with it anyway because of the very lucrative sponsorship deals they would lose if they abandoned  the carnival.’

‘I can understand that,’ he said. ‘Surf lifesaving in Australia is one of our most essential services. They get no financial support from governments and all of their essential lifesaving work is purely voluntary. They depend of sponsorships for survival.’

‘But does it justify the deaths of three young men in the prime of their lives?’ I asked.

‘When you consider the enormous number of lives our lifesavers have saved over the years, I think it does,’ he said. ‘All three of these young men knew the risks they were taking. It’s like joining the army and going to fight in Afghanistan and then getting killed in battle. Our lifesavers are heroes, just like our soldiers.’

‘There’s a difference ,’ I said. ‘Our soldiers are thoroughly trained before they leave our shores and they are well-paid whilst they are in battle. This boy who died last week was fourteen and still in training. And lifesaving was not a career for him; it was an unpaid pastime. He had a life and career ahead of him.’

I think this may have stumped him. He walked away, but I was not sure I had convinced him. I admire him for his belief in and loyalty to our lifesavers and their event organisers, but I cannot agree with his sentiments. What do you think?

Have you ever tried staining a deck? Sounds a simple operation, doesn’t it? Well, perhaps it is for people who have patience, perseverance, skill and a tough skin. I have none of those attributes.

My wife had been complaining for some time about the ‘yellowish’ look of some of the timber on our deck. I told her it was probably just natural ageing and not to worry about it. But still she persisted. ‘It needs staining!’ she implored ad nauseam.

 I eventually gave in, as I always do. I took myself off to Bunnings to enquire about a suitable stain. The salesman showed me a thousand different varieties of oil and water based stains and confused me with a plethora of scientific reasons why I should be careful to choose the right one.

‘Just give me a water-based one!’ I proclaimed in exasperation. ‘One that I can’t mess up.’

After listening to another diatribe of  reasons why a water-based stain would not be suitable, I became obstinate with frustration and insisted on a particular water-based stain that was dearer than the oil-based ones. Surely that was an indication of its worth, I thought. Fallaciously, as it turned out.

I arrived home with my proud new purchase and immediately went to work, happily slopping the stain onto the decking with my gleaming new brush. I was halfway through when I heard my wife scream.

‘What are you doing?’ she cried. ‘You’ve got that stuff all over the tiles!’

‘Not to worry ,’ I replied smugly. ‘This is water-based. It’ll just wash off with a cloth.’

But you’ve guessed it: it didn’t. The tiles seemed to absorb the stuff as if they were made of sponge, leaving big, ugly blotches of brown stain all over them.

And it didn’t get any better. ‘What are these gigantic bubbles on the timber?’ my wife demanded.

‘Oh they’ll go away when the stain dries,’ I replied optimistically.

You’ve guessed it haven’t you? They didn’t. They seemed to grow bigger as the stain dried, leaving massive balloon-like features right across the landscape. I trod on one and it burst, leaving a big round circle that looked like a fairground fence etched into the timber.

‘You’ve ruined the deck as well as the tiles!’ my wife howled.

‘Not to worry,’ I said, trying my best to appear calm. ‘I’ll hire a sander and sand it all off, then we’ll start again. I know what to do this time.’

My wife glared at me with moribund scepticism, as she often does.’Why don’t we just get a professional to do it?’ she asked gently.

‘No way! When I start something I always finish it!’ I retorted.

‘That’s just what I’m afraid of,’ my good wife muttered. I ignored the barb, jumped in the car and headed for the local machinery hire outlet.

After paying an arm and a leg to hire a floor sander I proudly brought it home and displayed it to my wife.

‘Do you know how to work that thing?’ she asked.

‘Of course!’ I scoffed. ‘It’s easy. You just use it like a mop and it does all the work for you.’

My wife rolled her eyes in disbelief and locked herself in the bathroom.

With her indoors out of the road I attacked the deck with my new toy, zooming happily over the surface like an Olympic  jetski. It was only a quarter finished when I had used up all the sandpaper. I was replacing the sandpaper every ten minutes because it kept getting clogged with a brown sediment. I realised that  I hadn’t allowed the stain to dry adequately before sanding. I had no sandpaper left and the machine, which had been making a very funny gurgling noise, suddenly stopped. A strong odour of burnt electrical wiring emanated from its inner workings.

‘What’s that Awful smell?’ my wife uttered as she emerged from her bunker.

‘I think the machine’s burnt out,’ I muttered. ‘Wouldn’t you think they’d hire out decent equipment.’

‘Take it back. I’m ringing the professionals.’

By this stage all the fight had left me. I nodded meekly and got a cold beer out of the fridge. God never  meant me to be a handyman.

What is it about an ugly, beat-up, rusty old ute that is so endearing?

I sold my ute to a mate three years ago and I still miss her like my best friend. I am very fortunate that I can still visit her, which I do regularly. I sit inside her cabin, caress her dashboard and hold intimate conversations with her as if she were a secret lover. She still smells the same: like a mixture of grease, body odour, unwashed dog and cow manure; an evocative mixture of aromas.

I had my ute for about ten years; ten of the best ten years of my life. I lived on acreage in those far-off, blissful days, and my ute suited my lifestyle perfectly. I had a dog in those days too; a beautiful German Shepherd called Lucy, who was allowed pride of place in the front seat, sitting on the lambs wool covers. Lucy regularly drooled all over the covers and deposited copious quantities of hair, dirt, fleas and various other creatures that she  gathered from her forays in the bush. And after three long years her smell is still there. I breathe it in deeply as I remember the happy times.

I once read a story about a fellow who visited a brothel. He was given an array of beautiful women to choose from but he chose the plainest, ugliest, oldest prostitute he could find. When asked the reason for his choice, he replied, ‘I didn’t come here because I’m randy, I became because I’m homesick.’

I believe that the same sort of sentiment applies to my ute. She’s  battered and ugly just like the old prostitute, but this is precisely what makes her so endearing. She feels like home and whenever I visit her I am consumed by nostalgia, by bitter-sweet memories of times gone by, my senses are swamped by the aromas, the touches and the emotions associated with those heady years. My ute is the only connection I have left to good times past; without her I would be homeless and destitute, like a lost child at a carnival.

I visited my old ute again just the other day. My mate, who perfectly understands my predicament, let me drive her around the paddock. I did a few donuts in the dirt and slipped and slid along the dirt track, going sideways through the gateway as I used to do all those years ago. I breathed in her perfume, I caressed her contours and spoke sweet endearing words to her as I clung onto her cracked and weathered steering wheel.

‘How you been, old girl?’ I murmured breathlessly as I  fondled her gear stick lovingly and recklessly and pumped the clutch, brake and accelerator peddles with erotic joy.

I’m sure I heard her say, ‘I’ve missed you, Bobby, I’ve missed all the fun times we had together. Take me away from here.’

‘I can’t, my old lovely,’ I replied sadly. ‘My life has changed. There’s no room for you any more.’

‘I understand,’ she replied. ‘But don’t ever forget me.’

And I never will.

Sounds pretty good doesn’t it – living in a gated estate at Hope Island?

It is pretty good too, but it hasn’t always been that way.

You see, when we first moved here from acreage near Beenleigh, I didn’t understand what a ‘gated estate’ was. I thought it meant that everyone had fancy front entrances. I had no idea about things called ‘body corporates’ and ‘governing bodies’. We liked the place originally because it was close to Surfers, it had a tennis court, swimming pool and a gym right next door  and it had lots of water everywhere. The house we bought had canals and creeks and waterways in all directions.

On the day we exchanged contracts I turned up in my trusty old bomb – a much -loved but very battered old Mazda ute, with my beautiful German Shepherd Lucy, hanging out the window and lovingly licking everyone within reach. I also brought with me some items  I had always treasured whilst living on my Beenleigh acreage: a rusty wheelbarrow, an old  oil-dripping chainsaw,  a smelly old tinny that I intended launching in the canal, and a poptop camper. My wife drove in behind me in our dented, well-loved 1982 Falcon. 

I was met at the front gate by my new neighbour,  a rather pompous,looking Pom wearing golfing gear and a supercilious smirk.

‘Where are you going to put all that?’ he asked, indicating my prized possessions.

‘Oh what ever won’t fit in the garage can stay in he driveway or on that vacant land opposite,’ I advised confidently.

‘You obviously don’t know anything about gated estates or body corporates,’ my newfound  fount of knowledge scoffed.

‘Tell me about them,’ I begged.

‘Well, for a start, you are not permitted to have anything in your driveway or on the corporate land opposite,’ he advised. ‘And all animals must be kept on a leash at all times and you must follow them around with a pooper scooper. If you fail to do this, you are breaking the body corporate rules and we can take you to court where a magistrate can send you to prison.’

‘That so?’ I said, hating the bloke immediately. Lucy would have a nervous breakdown for sure.

‘And you can’t have vee-hicles like these.‘ He indicated my trusty ute, my much-loved Falcon and my dented and rusty poptop camper. ‘You’ll have to get rid of them.’

‘But I’ll keep them in the shed, I promise!’ 

‘Not good enough,’ he retorted. ‘It lowers the  culture and timbre of the estate. ‘And you won’t be permitted to put that in the water.’ (he pointed accusingly at  my tinny.)

‘Why?’

Because there is such a thing as canal pollution here. Only late model, well-maintained vessels are allowed in the canals and waterways. And what do you need a chainsaw for, for heaven’s sake?’

‘I thought I might get rid of a few trees from the back yard.’

He rolled his eyes in disbelief. ‘What part of Beenleigh did you say you came from?’

‘I’ll have you know that I lived near Beenleigh for fourteen years and brought up my family there. We all loved the place!’ I retorted angrily.

‘You don’t belong here, mate. You’re an unwanted alien in a place of culture and good taste.’

‘I can see that,’ I muttered despondently, realising I had made a terrible mistake. I could picture  myself slitting my wrists within hours.

But I didn’t slit my writs. In fact, I ended up joining the body corporate, much to my neighbour’s intense disgust. Nowadays I enforce the rules. My neighbour was sadly, forced to sell up and leave because I  reported him for parking his vee-hicle on corporate land and  for  failing to wear proper tennis shoes on the tennis court. I’m very particular about those things. I also found one of his dog’s droppings on the corporate land. That was the clincher.

Oh, and I’ve had to get rid of the ute, the Falcon, the tinny and the chainsaw, much to my  disappointment, but life’s not too bad. I have a new neighbour who  doesn’t talk down to me and loves dogs and tennis.

Life in a gated  estate is not so bad after all.

So much has been said and written about the current state of the war between Kevin and Julia. The pundits are predicting all sorts of disastrous  outcomes for the beleaguered Labor Party, which must surely be in the last throes of its own self-inflicted destruction. Its members have been described as dysfunctional morons,  megalomaniacs, back-stabbers, self-centred egotists, incompetents, psychotics, sociopaths and schizophrenics, all of which I believe are accurate descriptions for many of its members. Is this the party we voted into power to run our country?

Well, not really. The Gillard government never won a mandate to govern. The last election resulted in a hung parliament and Labour came to power by the skin of its teeth purely because of Independent and Greens preferences. And Gillard has never been elected by the people to lead the country.

There is one scenario about the whole sorry affair that has not yet been considered, as far as I know. I was around in 1975 when the Governor General was forced to sack Gough Whitlam as prime minister and bring about a double dissolution. If Rudd loses the leadership challenge on Monday, and many say he will, he may spit the dummy and quit politics altogether. If his seat were to be filled by a member of the Coalition, or an Independent who gave his preferences to the Coalition, the result would be another hung parliament. Tony Abbott could feasibly block supply again, as Fraser did in 1975, forcing the Governor General to sack the prime minister and declare another double dissolution. The subsequent election would almost certainly mean a landslide victory for the Coalition, and finally, after two years of trauma, we would have a government which could rule in its own right once again.

Could it be that history is about to repeat itself?