At the risk of sounding paternalistic, and possibly imperialistic, where I live in Avondale Heights was, for a brief moment in time, the very edge of the known world.

In early February 1803, the naval officer James Fleming and the surveyor Charlies Grimes left their ship in the bay, and rowed up the Yarra mouth. They mistook the left hand fork for the main river and led their small party up the Maribyrnong until what is now known as Solomon’s Ford, where they were unable to get their boat over. They explored on foot for a few miles, and then when a storm came camped for the night.

Solomon’s Ford is at the west end of Canning Street, little more than five minutes walk around the corner from where I sit right now, typing these words. As Joseph Conrad wrote: ‘the darkness was here yesterday’.

I have always had an interest in local history, and can tell you who many of the main roads in the Maribyrnong area were named after (mostly early pastoralists who bought the land, either in the 1840s or sometime not too long after, or after suburban subdivision, later local community figures). From an early age, it intrigued me greatly that an imposing bluestone structure with tower, known locally as Raleigh’s Castle, stood on top of the main low hill in Maribyrnong, somewhere close to where Highpoint Shopping Centre is now located. (Sadly it has been gone a long time, and the only traces of Joseph Raleigh now are the main road in Maribyrnong, the oldest of the bluestone factory buildings in Pipemakers Park, and the fact that the suburb of Maribyrnong is still visibly divided between the urbanised eastern half he once owned, and the western half which still partly is owned by the Defence Department.)

Just like Conrad’s character Marlow, I have always been intrigued by maps – in my case older maps of Melbourne. In the 1970s, some maps still recorded the original course of the Yarra River, before Coode Canal was dug in the 1880s, even though it had been filled in during the 1930s. The 1956 canvas map of Melbourne which hangs on my wall still features the West Melbourne Swamp, sandwiched between Dynon Road (formerly known as Swamp Road) to the north, and Footscray Road (then recently rebuilt to run through the swamp rather than to the south of it) to the south.

The existence of that swamp and the now long gone northern bend of the Yarra, to the west of the marshland around Moonee Ponds Creek, created a one mile thick barrier between Melbourne and the village of Footscray, which was starting up in the 1850s on the west bank of the Maribyrnong, just north of the original fork of the two rivers.

On Friday night, I finished reading David Sornig’s book, Blue Lake, which is about this long forgotten swamp, and the itinerant community of Dudley Flat, a humpy town which sprouted up in the Great Depression near the junction of the Yarra with Moonee Ponds Creek.

David Sornig is originally from Sunshine, and much of an age with me (probably a little bit older). He writes of those of us who can remember milk deliveries by horse cart in the early 70s (I never saw it, I only ever heard it, and my mother recently found a horse shoe in her street, just opposite where the diary used to be), and horses kept on outer suburb blocks.

He also through a great deal of meticulous research and humanity brings to life three of the denizens of Dudley Flats from the 1930s, and the misadventures and occasional tragedies which brought them to live in that humpy town on the edge of a city tip.

No book, when you buy it and choose to read it, is ever quite what you expected it to be, and that is probably what makes reading so fun. I was expecting an account of how the swamp vanished and Coode Island first came into being and then ceased to be (as a literal island). Instead, this is just the frame inside which Dudley Flats and its inhabitants are portrayed for us.

Of course, I was intrigued by his attempt, with two friends, to retrace the original course of the Yarra and the outline of the West Melbourne Swamp late in the book. It is very much the kind of thing that I once would have wanted to do, except that aside from the drainage canal parallel to Dynon Road, there is little greenery to see, and much industrial wasteland to discourage one.

Oh, and as a personal footnote. When I look west along Canning Street these days, there is a housing development going up on the valley wall on the other side of the river, just across from Solomon’s Ford. So much for preservation of some semblance of wilderness at what once was the very edge of the known world.

iam pridem, ex quo suffragia nulli / uendimus, effudit curas; nam qui dabat olim / imperium, fasces, legiones, omnia, nunc se / continet atque duas tantum res anxius optat, / panem et circenses. 

Writing at the time the Roman Empire was reaching its greatest extent, in his Satire X, the Roman poet Juvenal denounced the apathy of the people of Imperial Rome. Instead of the civic virtues of the Republic where the people handed out high office and military command, they were now contented to hope for bread and circuses.

At this point in our own society, where we have abundant wealth and material prosperity, we are also, compared to our immediate forebears, passive and apathetic. Few people, as a proportion of the whole, see any need for civic involvement, whether it is in a political party or in a community group or sporting club. And some, like that recently disgraced state ALP MP, seem to be doing not out of civic duty, but for power and profit, a pathetic form of rent seeking.

We protest less, and we accept what our elected officials say much more. We are becoming like sheep, with our shepherds, as Nietzsche might have warned.

Are we really content, and are we really happy, or have we really reached the point where we do not care? Previous generations cared, but that is because they had skin in the game. World Wars, depressions, conscription, the threat of nuclear annihilation, those were things which threatened previous generations in a very real way. Hence they would get involved in their communities and show civic duty, including getting involved at the grassroots in political parties, community groups, and sporting clubs – the building blocks of civil society.

We rest on what previous generations have created, and we are currently at risk of losing much of that.

Take the political parties. The pandemic means that meetings are no longer possible, and political parties have not yet created rules that permit annual general meetings and internal elections to be held virtually. This plays into the hands of those who control the party machines, who are as interested in actual grassroots involvement as the people in Tammany Hall over a century ago.

The Victorian ALP is an extreme example. Its leaders have acquiesced over many years in practices similar to the Tammany tactics, known as branch stacking. This means that at least a quarter of the current 16,000 members are probably not there for bona fide intentions. The result is that the entire state branch has been placed in administration and the remaining members have been disenfranchised entirely for the next 3 years. Those who have a sense of civic duty are reduced, from active citizens, to passive agents of the party machine.

The Victorian Liberal Party is not much better. It has had some apparent episodes of branch stacking as well in recent years, mostly involving members of various Christian fundamentalist or post-Christian (as I call some American sourced religions from the mid 19th century) congregations. I do not think that the motives of those engineering such membership drives were out of civic duty, but rather out of a desire to wrest control of the party machine, perhaps involving people who might not be most accurately described as ‘liberal’ in their ideas. Nor has the party machine done a very good job of engaging with its current 11,000 members.

These parties were created at the grassroots by people who cared about issues facing the nation. To have them turned into soulless machines controlled by apparatchiks is not a healthy development for our society or democracy – especially at a time where both of these parties have welcomed into their fold with open arms and without scrutiny persons with apparent links to the Chinese Communist Party.

Lockdown also, especially as it stretches on further, threatens the existence of other civic groups, such as sporting clubs and cultural associations. A friend of mine plays hockey each winter. Her hockey competition was suspended a few months ago. When will it resume? I belong to a small Italian cultural group, which tries to hold a couple of activities each year. Right now, even our annual gala dinner at the end of the year is threatened by the lockdown, creating a threat to member engagement.

Creating and building community groups and clubs takes years. Closing them down can take minutes. Just look at the decline of Lawn Bowls clubs around the suburbs in the past thirty years.

The public has for the most part uncritically accepted the need for a lockdown, and placed a lot of trust in their governments. This is the type of society we are now, passive and obedient and uncritical. The debate is not whether lockdown is necessary and whether or not the authority of the state is being misused or not, but whether the lockdown has been handled effectively.

Like the people of Ancient Rome, we have become clients of the state, with Jobkeeper and related ultimately inflationary measures, to keep discontent and disquiet to a minimum. Those aspects of Civil Society which are usually most independent of the state, such as churches and small businesses, have been forced – with barely a whimper – to close down.

Hardly anyone is talking about what all this means for our society going forward.

Some people, mostly economists (and a few amateurs like me), are concerned that the Uber-Keynesian measures being pursued by western governments all over the world, running up titanic and unprecedented deficits and effectively printing money, are going to have major consequences for the financial system and the world economy, to say nothing of our own national economy.

But no one seems to be talking about what the consequences are for the health of Civil Society, at a time when sporting clubs are not competing and the only community groups operating are those who are mostly funded through the largesse of the state apparatus.

Instead, we sit at home, watching our Netflix, and getting our junk food deliveries from Uber Eats, content that the NBN gives us the reliable connections to keep us entertained and fed. This is very similar to various dystopian futures which have been written about or filmed, mostly recently in I, Robot. Is this the kind of future we want for our society?

Bread and Circuses indeed, 21st century style.

It is now mid-winter and I am in a state of semi-hibernation, which is strange because winter is usually one of the most academically and professionally active times of the year. I do my job on my laptop, and go into the office twice a week, but I see no point in taking holidays, and I am not exactly doing much else right now.

The 8th of July marked 3 months since I started growing my isolation beard. My friends say (mostly when they see me on Zoom or Skype or What’s App video calls) I look like a rabbi or an ayatollah now, with lots of streaks of grey and white in it. (It has been almost a decade since I last grew a beard, and never for this long, so I do get a bit of a shock when I get these reminders of ageing.)

Officially, I think I started working from home on my laptop on 31 March, so we are now about three and a half months into this surreal self-isolation.

April was the cruellest month, as T.S. Eliot would say (I have a life long propensity to quote him which I still can’t outgrow!), with the hard lockdown keeping most shops shut and Melbourne almost On-The-Beach empty.

May started to see shops reopen, mostly because landlords are rather ruthless about rent relief unless they are dealing with someone more ruthless than they are (like a certain rag trade billionaire), and businesses could not stay shut without trying do something to get some cash flow happening.

June saw the first signs of normality, with rules relaxing a little and restaurants and pubs starting to try to reopen. And then WHAM!

It looks like Victoria has got a major health catastrophe developing around our ears right now. Not only have we suddenly gone from single digit daily cases to high single digit cases, but we are now well into the triple digits every day. 288 yesterday, 216 today, and we are in lockdown til August 19th. I expect it will be much longer than that.

Hotel quarantine, where the problems seems to have emerged, is now subject to an official enquiry, which will report in several months. Hopefully this enquiry is conducted properly, and reported on openly, rather than with the secrecy and lack of transparency which is becoming systemic (if not pandemoniac) in the Andrews regime.

Chairman Dan is now asking people to wear masks in public, and with growing anger and resentment towards him and the need to hold him accountable for what has gone wrong (just as he was taking the credit for things going right), it looks like he will need to wear a mask in public to avoid rotten tomatoes being thrown at him.

He is good at finding scapegoats (as we now see from how he acted decisively when the long standing branch stacking problems inside his party finally became front page news), and he enjoys a healthy majority in the legislative assembly, so he probably is considering whom he should throw to the wolves to protect his own job. [Hopefully he flushes out his ill-considered belt and road agreement which is another step towards selling our state to Communist China.]

Of course, the alternative premier is the colourless Michael O’Brien, who is unknown to most voters, publicly described by the press gallery as somewhat abrasive (I know this to be an understatement), and only got the job by default when the chap with the numbers lost his seat at the last election. The idea of O’Brien as premier fills me with dismay. Indeed, his very colourlessness means that the only lively member of the state opposition, Tim Smith is being touted as a possible challenger.

Tim Smith, however, is not exactly a big picture thinker. He has most recently gotten publicity for demanding that the golf courses are reopened and that the flying foxes in Yarra Bend Park in his electorate be driven out of his area. I suppose he wants to be in relation to fruit bats in Kew what St Patrick was to snakes in Ireland. But that does not make him a credible challenger to the one shade of grey that is Mr O’Brien.

There are two years and four months until the next state election. That is a long time. They say that Oppositions do not win elections, Governments lose them. Indeed, the only effective state opposition leader in my lifetime was the loud and sometimes gaff prone Jeff Kennett, who took three elections to finally win, and then proved to be a very effective premier. He was always out there, for about a decade (aside from two years of exile), loudly leading with his chin, but always making an effort and always being noticed. Compare that to the mumbling insipidity of Mr O’Brien, who is more invisible than a Baggins when wearing a magic ring.

Hmm… perhaps I have underestimated the talents of Tim Smith. Maybe he will be a more credible Opposition Leader.

Grumbling about and making unkind comments about political leaders of either colour is quite fun, although not as fun as throwing tomatoes at them (I knew a bloke at uni who suddenly turned a few years later into a serial pie thrower at politicians – it got him into a fair bit of trouble). But I think there are lots of other aspects about self-isolation I can reflect upon.

I once said to one of my friends that I would love to own a larger house, so that I could have one room as a dedicated man-cave. He observed that my entire home is a man-cave, and indeed it is, although I do not have a dedicated bar, pool table, jukebox, pinball or 80s arcade game machine, or framed sports memorabilia on the walls.

So you might surmise that living alone in a three bedroom brick veneer home adapted to my own unique wants and needs in what is now an intermediate suburb of Melbourne is not exactly an uncomfortable way to hibernate during this pandemonium which is the local resurgence of the pandemic.

I reached ‘peak library’ several years ago, and I am not intending to add to the 2000 books on my shelves. I tend to give most books I read now away. But I do have about 80 unread books in piles in my lounge room. I do chip away at that pile.

Just before the pandemic started, I got my NBN installed, and upgraded my internet plan to unlimited data (I had binge watched a few too many shows between Christmas and New Year). Since then, as the days have gotten shorter, the nights longer, and the outlook darker, I have added Amazon Prime and Disney+ to the Apple TV+ subscription I was watching at the start of the year.

Last month, I finally bought a blue tooth speaker, so I can get halfway decent sound quality when streaming my Apple Music, and now I have music playing in the background almost constantly.

I have since 2013 kept a large supply of toilet paper for emergencies, and I have tripled it since the pandemic started. I also have more tinned food and dry pasta stored than I am likely to use. And if we run out of fresh fruit and vegetables at the supermarket (as was the case briefly a few nights ago), the orange trees I planted 17 years ago fruit in sequence (Navel, Mediterranean Sweet, Blood Orange, Valencia) between June and October, giving me a supply of fruit unlikely to run out before December (so I am not worried about scurvy).

In recent weeks, I have noticed that compared to around this time two years ago, or even six months ago, all the food delivery apps I use from time to time, Uber Eats, Deliveroo, and Menu Log, have lifted their game and are more reliable and faster than ever in getting my orders to my door.

As for keeping up with friends? I have What’s App, Zoom, Skype, and even Web X loaded onto either my phone or my desktop.

I do have an abundant cache of fine red wine at home, although I have run out of table wine lately. But as restaurants are shut and I cannot socialise in person with friends, I have decided to observe Dry July as a preventative health measure, and have not had a drink in almost two weeks. I don’t exactly miss it.

So staying at home most of the time, in my extremely comfortable home, is not a hardship. Worrying about the possibility of my family or friends getting sick from the Covid is my main concern. But staying inside a warm home rather than going out is a first world problem, the kind that I bet my grandfathers, both veterans of the First World War, would have wished they had had.

How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore 
And a Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot
In the Caribbean by providence impoverished
In squalor, grow up to be a hero and a scholar?

The ten-dollar founding father without a father
Got a lot farther by working a lot harder
By being a lot smarter By being a self-starter
By fourteen, they placed him in charge of a trading charter

So starts the opening number of the musical Hamilton, just released as a film by Disney on 3rd July. It is a contemporary tribute to Alexander Hamilton, perhaps (as you can probably surmise from those lyrics) the most unlikely of the founding fathers of the United States of America, and possibly the most gifted, although that is debatable when you place him in the company of such men as Franklin, Adams and Jefferson.

I triggered my two week free Disney + trial yesterday, at the start of the weekend, and spent my Saturday binge watching The Mandalorian, and then caught up on a few recent Simpsons episodes (since the advent of digital TV, I have lost track of when new episodes show and rarely watch it anymore). Today I decided to give in to the hype and watch Hamilton, which was released two days ago on that streaming service.

I must say that Alexander Hamilton has never captured my imagination. His rival and eventual killer, the more colourful adventurer Aaron Burr, pricked my interest from an early stage, and I have read both Gore Vidal’s wicked novel Burr, and Nancy Isenburg’s biography of the fallen founder. But this musical has triggered my curiosity, and I want to know more about this talented and flawed statesman.

At the moment, America is in a crisis. There is significant economic and social malaise, which has been eating away at the foundations of the nation far before the Pandemic came along to capture attention. There is a president who seems, at best, rather erratic, and at worst extremely petulant and irresponsible. The alternative, Biden, appears to be on the edge of dementia, or at least noticeable cognitive decline. There are riots tearing their way across the major cities of the nation. Outside its borders, allies are suffering economic disarray and social lockdown due to the Pandemic, whilst the source of the Pandemic, China, appears to be flexing its muscles to replace the USA as global hegemon.

Things do look dire for America. But America has always had one thing going for it which other nations tend to lack, even others which enjoy Anglophonic political values and a Magna Carta based Rule of Law, a national Will To Power which has constantly propelled it from a few starving villages of Puritan ‘pilgrims’ on the Atlantic seaboard into the most powerful nation in history.

Going back to the Puritans, as Frances Fitzgerald observed over 30 years ago in her book Cities On A Hill was: ‘a tradition of radical dissent, separation, and heroic struggle to build a new world on hostile ground’. Dissent, separatism and struggle are not concepts which are alien to the American mindset today, and nor is the Calvinism which has driven Americans over the past four hundred years in the building of their unique and different society, so disturbingly similar and yet so alien from that which I, an Italian-Australian committed to the ideas of the Scottish enlightenment, dwell within.

Whether Americans believe in God or not (and most do), that Calvinism that drove the Puritans has hardwired most of their society to strive in a similar way, a protestant work ethic which drives their capitalist spirit long after the spirituality (as Max Weber suggested in Germany over a century ago) has been forgotten.

Which takes us back to those introductory lyrics above, which were first heard on Boardway five years ago. A bastard son of a whore and a Scotsman, got a lot farther by working a lot harder, by being a lot smarter, by being a self-starter. Hard work, individual merit, initiative. These are the virtues which, in rap style, the Hispanic American composer (and star) of the musical puts into the words he places in the mouth of the black American playing Aaron Burr.

These are American values, the austere yet optimistic self-belief which has served as the dynamism of that nation for so long.

And the world is gonna know your name
What’s your name, man?

Alexander Hamilton
My name is Alexander Hamilton
And there’s a million things I haven’t done
But just you wait, just you wait

Composed and first performed in 2015 by a multi-racial American cast, released by Disney as a movie two days ago, do these values appear dead to you now? I would say not. When people in a nation, regardless of their race or ethnicity or class origins, still believe in and express those values, and indeed celebrate them, I consider that those values remain alive and well in that nation.

Just consider the lyrics:

When America sings for you
Will they know what you overcame?
Will they know you rewrote your game?
The world will never be the same, oh

The ship is in the harbor now
See if you can spot him

Another immigrant comin’ up from the bottom

One of the things which has been a strength in Western Civilisation, and in America, has been its sense of questioning and self-doubt. This comes from the Ancient Greeks, particularly Socrates. You learn to ask the question ‘What if I am wrong?’ The answer is another question ‘In case I am wrong, who can I learn from to become right?’

This self-doubt is a cultural strength, because it promotes learning from societal mistakes, inclusion of and generosity to outsiders, and adoption of new beliefs or practices from other cultures and civilisations. A culture which is totally self-assured has a misplaced arrogance which makes it weaker than those that self-doubt.

There are riots and protests in America. These are signs that America is doubting itself and starting to realise some mistakes in how its society is run. These are the first steps to recognising and rectifying those mistakes. America is not about to lay down and die. There is still a lot of strength and vitality to it.

Just you wait.

Because it is in a more remote pocket of Avondale Heights, about 500 metres on the other side of Military Road, where the streets are all named after places in France, I rarely get along to the Cannoli Bar in Riviera Road. It opened about 2 years ago, in a former milk bar and is always very busy.

This morning, having a craving for some quality cannoli, I made the trek there, aided by the 406 bus taking me north a few stops.

As I was arriving, my neighbour and her boyfriend were leaving. I took the opportunity to check with her as to when the fencing contractor is coming to replace our shared fence. Next week. Fantastic!

Even though it is in a rather obscure location, and I previously only knew Riviera Road as the access street when visiting my godparents, it does seem that everyone comes there from all over the inner north western suburbs.

And although the cannoli are very lavish and different from what you see elsewhere (they are very unique), they are doing a roaring trade. Everyone knows about them, and goes there.

It has a very 1960s Italian vibe to it as well, with old Italian vinyls either playing or on display, and the furnishings looking very 1960s. I especially applaud the two empty demijohns placed out the front of the shop front.

This all goes to remind me that Avondale Heights remains one of the most Italian suburbs of Melbourne, which might be why I, despite my major Anglomorphism, feel so much at home here.

I like a glass of decent red wine or seven. The older I get, the more I realise that this is not a good way of managing my health, regardless of what wine writers say about the various natural chemicals in wine preventing or curing all sorts of illnesses.

I do know, given that we are in a Pandemic and my area, whilst not in a formal lockdown right now, is adjacent to several suburbs which have been locked down again, that this might not be the best time to decide to impose limitations on myself in terms of drinking. However, there are some good reasons why it would be a suitable time. After all, it is not like I can drink in a restaurant, or in a bar, or in any company outside my home. And the only friends I have within close proximity who might want to come over and share a bottle of wine with me are in lockdown suburbs.

So I decided after some wine on Sunday night that I would unofficially observe Dry July, starting two days early.

This is not without its difficulties, which come mostly in the shape of my various friends and colleagues.

Take Tuesday night, the eve of Dry July, when one of my friends called me excitedly to tell me that Coles Online were selling Penfolds Bin 28 Kalimna Shiraz for $15 per bottle. (Recommended retail price is about $50.)

Whilst I have never ordered from an online grocery website before, I thought this offer might be too good to be true, but that it was worth checking out.

And lo and behold!  It was true, according to the Coles Online website.  So I ordered 5 bottles (the maximum) and committed to being home between 8am and 2pm Friday so that those could be delivered.

Yesterday, to his dismay, my friend got an email from Coles saying that they were out of stock.  Soon after that however, I got an email saying that my order was being prepared and that it would be delivered between 11.35am and 12.35pm on Friday.

Being gracious about it, I told my friend that he could have two or three of my bottles at cost if they in fact did not get cancelled too.

Not long later, I got an email similar to that which my friend got, blandly (and insincerely) apologising for it being out of stock and that the wine would not be forthcoming.

This morning, regardless, I got two texts advising me that the order was on its way. I checked with their call centre, which checked and admitted that oops, their automated systems were wrong about the upcoming delivery.

My friend has vowed not to shop at Coles again, he is so angry and disappointed.

As for me?  I wasted the time spent to register for Coles Online and to place the order, and I am not intending to waste my time ever placing any more orders with Coles Online, as yes, it was too good to be true which meant that Coles Online published something very untrue on their website.

Bland apologies like that do not really cut it. If Coles really wanted to make me feel less aggrieved, they could offer some remedy. They can afford it. However, they cannot be bothered.

On the other hand, I do not have those five very tempting bottles of Bin 28 in my home. And I am so angry at Coles, which runs one of only two bottle shops within walking distance of my home, that I am not inclined to walk there and buy any wine for quite a while.

So thank you Coles, for making it easier for me to observe Dry July.

As a small child, I have very fond memories of quality time spent with my father (I was the first born child and therefore had lots of privileged access). Visits to the zoo, or to the Royal Melbourne Show, or to see the Moomba Parade.

Moomba was always a constant. You had the parade each March (I was 12 before I knew that the public holiday was Labour Day and not Moomba Day), with the King of Moomba and the regular appearance of the clowns Zig and Zag.

In 1999, when I was in Canberra for many months, I went to some festival one Saturday night at a similar time of the year with some female colleagues and their kids, where the husband of one of colleagues (the only other adult male) sought refuge and suggested the two of us sneak off for a few beers at some bar in the Sydney Building in Civic.

During those six hours of beer drinking (‘few’ is an interesting concept when you are drinking with like minded people), he did break to me the news that whilst Zig and Zag had been crowned co-kings of Moomba that year, they had been forced to abdicate before the parade due to sexual allegations about one of them.

OK… I think Moomba was mostly on the way out by then – I think when they experimented with holding it on different days or with trams instead of floats, and generally burying Moomba under political correctness instead of joy, it had been terminal for most of a decade by that stage.

But as a child, I saw Moomba as a happy festival of clowns and humour and fun.

The King of Moomba was mostly a clown prince. Who can treat Bert Newton or Graham Kennedy or Mickey Mouse or Johnny Farnham seriously? Lou Richards was a clown prince before it rained on his parade!

But I guess that the real King of Moomba was always the king behind the Moomba throne, ie the Lord Mayor of Melbourne. Moomba was and still is a festival run by the City of Melbourne, and first established in the 1950s when the Lord Mayor of Melbourne was still a person who enjoyed great power and authority and prestige.

Such power has been eaten away since then by the jealousy of state governments and the very ridiculousness of some of the incumbents of the office of Lord Mayor, who have reduced it to a level of major derision, to match the statutory impotence of the role.

[An exception of course is John So. He is so beloved and respected that we all still think that he is our Bro!]

Probably the most visible and high profile of these buffoonish Lord Mayors is Robert Doyle, who spent some 12 years as Lord Mayor before being forced to resign from the role due to allegations of sexual harassment of female councillors.

Today, an announcement was made by the Victoria Police that their two year investigation into his alleged improprieties will not result in criminal charges.

I will admit here, as many of my friends already know, that I vehemently dislike Robert Doyle. Looking back wryly on the reasons why I happen to dislike him, most of the most personally compelling ones are puerile and probably petty. As for some of the more legitimate ones now, such as my belief that he is not a man who has any decently held principles but whom is willing to sell his soul to feather his own nest (such as the perception I hold that he ‘threw’ the 2002 election and was then rewarded with a sinecure by the Bracks Labor government for his incompetence as state opposition leader), well, I guess I can put those aside too.

What is more important is whether or not he has gotten away with not only serious sexual harassment, which caused him to resign from the buffoonish role of Lord Mayor, but actual criminal sexual assault or related conduct?

Given my stated vehement dislike of this buffoon, I find it hard to be a ‘big man’ about this sort of thing. But do I really want to celebrate the possible misery and utter ruin of someone, even though I dislike them so much on a petty scale? I think not. I will say that I vehemently hope that he has been able to escape prosecution because he is innocent, and not because of lack of evidence. That is not only because I do not want to wish ill on him, but because the alternative is that he has done some seriously horrible things to some people with total impunity. I would not wish that on those people.

But these are the sorts of moral dilemmas I face as I become a more mature adult and move away from petty spitefulness and hatefulness.

But whether he has done anything bad or not, I still consider him a rather swinish buffoon, an apt clown-prince of Moomba.

At the time of the South Sea Bubble in the 18th Century, Dr Brian May lookalike Sir Isaac Newton is quoted as saying:

“I can calculate the movement of the stars, but not the madness of men”.

Sir Isaac was also a shareholder in the South Sea company, but I am not sure whether he was wise enough to get out before it crashed.

For a while, I have had my eye on a particular share (let us call it Share X – I am not sure whether being too honest with the truth is a legally safe thing to do, not having any licences to even provide free advice to people and not being a financial journalist). There are several times when I wish I had bought into them. And others when I wish I had sold them.

They are the kind of stock which a trader used to casino games would love. For all my faults, I am not prone to gambling (aside from the occasional lottery ticket shared with friends).

A year ago today, Share X was under $1.90. Just before Christmas 2019, this share was at 3.70. It then peaked around mid January 2020 at about 5.50, before dropping in late March below 2.10.

Where would you say this share is today? It closed at about 8.70, having peaked last week above $9.00.

It offers a dividend yield of under 0.7% (less than I get from the bank!).

Another thing (testifying to the hysterical nature of supply and demand) is interesting to note. A year ago, just over 300,000 shares were changing hands per week. Last week, over 6 million shares changed hands, and in the weeks before that, just under 2 million shares per week.

Without trying to do the sort of technical analysis which goes beyond my mathematical capacity, the only way I can really explain this sort of share price behaviour is sociological. A lot of mug punter first time investors are trying to churn this share, in the hope of making money before the price drops on them, as some sort of monetary version of musical chairs. Because it is a low profile investment fund, rather than a large high profile company, some people have hooked onto it and the result is major volatility.

It is not just this share which is behaving like this. In the USA, Hertz has gone into bankruptcy, and that has not stopped a lot of green horn investors pumping their money into it (ie into worthless shares) causing the share price to triple (?!?). This even encouraged Hertz to try and do a $1 Billion capital raising – money which would have gone to creditors rather than to investors. They almost got it through, too, except that apparently someone either thought about the downstream legal recriminations, or that it was the moral equivalent of taking candy from a baby.

So there are a lot of people out there thinking suddenly that the share market is a big and exciting casino game, where nerve and bluff are going to enable you to make a lot of money, without actually losing any (or at least not too much). Or is it that the share market is like bungee jumping – you can get a big thrill without going splat!

I am not too sure when the market is going to go splat, but there are a lot of things going wrong in the world at the moment, and I am worried about both deflation and inflation, and aside from 1000 Treasury Wine Estate shares recently purchased (as a big drinker of wine, of course I want to own shares in TWE no matter what), my position is almost entirely in cash. This is not a time for optimism.

When I was browsing Wikipedia just before, I saw a featured article on the title page which was just too bizarre for me to pass up:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Asakai

Yes, if you have clicked on that link and read it, this is an account of a virtual battle in cyberspace, not about alleged Communist Chinese hackers trying to bring down our economy, but where over 3000 players of some online multi-player space warfare game accidentally joined together in battle.

I enjoy watching the Apple TV sitcom Mythic Quest as much as another, but the idea of spending many hours playing some sort of online video game is very unappealing. Life itself has a lot of its own challenges to face, hopefully more profitably than hours spent escaping from it into some space opera fantasy.

In many ways, this sort of video game battle is the ultimate first world problem, especially compared to the real naval battles which were fought in the First and Second World Wars, where real Dreadnoughts and Carriers and other capital ships fought savagely to the death, and where drowning, burning, or being eaten to death by sharks awaited hapless sailors.

With only an ounce of smug arrogance, I will say to those people spending so much time on such games: Get a life!

As a footnote – where do I buy shares in the video game company which is able to hook so many customers?

A few months ago (and where has the year gone?) I wrote something about how countries like the USA are able to inspire their musicians to write songs about their cities and homes which are clearly linked to their geography, but which are un-self-conscious about it, New York City being a prime example.

Australia is not so good at that, as I noted. Like everyone else, I love Men At Work, and vaguely remember seeing Colin Hay do a gig at Monash in the late 1980s, where I think he was better solo than in a band. But ‘Down Under’ is probably best considered as a cringe worthy self-conscious song celebrating the joys of being Australian.

I am never too sure what we mean when we talk about cultural cringe, but either we feel it, or we consciously react against it. I think ‘Down Under’, which briefly became the unofficial national anthem in 1983 (just like ‘Slice of Heaven’ is probably New Zealand’s national anthem, or at least I like to say so), is an example of the latter rather than the former.

But we sometimes do have songs which are better at transmitting our love of country, and of our home, without any self-consciousness about them.

I am a late adopter of new technology. During the week I finally bought an entry level blue tooth speaker and synced it to my iPhone. Now I am able to listen to selections from my Apple Music account loud whilst I am working from my dining table on my laptop or chilling in the lounge after works. Much better audio than what my iPhone or iMac offers means I have more incentive to play music more often, and to search out both old favourites and new nuggets.

Old favourites include bands from my teen-age years, like Cold Chisel and Australian Crawl. Getting older and having constant internet access at my fingertips means that I can study their lyrics more closely than on mere radio play in the early 1980s.

(‘Hopes are up, for trousers down, with the hostess on the business flight…’ are the sort of lyrics which probably fluked their way onto the airwaves back then, but in the less innocent Me Too era of now, sound, even to someone like me who is not exactly politically correct, a bit too misogynistic for the present.)

Take Reckless, one of Oz Crawl’s last songs. It’s opening, with the mellow bass line, is only about Australia:

Meet me down by the jetty landing

Where the pontoons bump and sway

I see the others reading, standing

As the Manly Ferry cuts its way to Circular Quay.

Not bad for a handful of posh private schoolboys from the Mornington Peninsula, playing at being cashed up bogans before the word bogan became common.

Or one of my other favourites of their songs, ‘Hoochie Gucci Fiorucci Mama’, which addresses the empty materialism and spiritual bankruptcy of their peers from that upper middle class society they sprang from:

Antiques flown in from Venice

Fill your house upon the hill

While your money sold the soul of rock and roll

For some cheap disco thrill

I’ve seen your peers pouting over beers

The loneliness it showed

Mistaking tacky sex for sensuality

They bought in Toorak Road

What the exact significance of Toorak Road there is not clear to me. It’s a street that has, for as long I have known it, been filled with relatively upmarket houses and flats, and some luxury apartments. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that it also had a lot of upmarket call girls in those apartments.

Cold Chisel also were good at celebrating being Australian. I remember being in the Clyde Hotel in the mid 1990s on a Saturday night, filled with a uni crowd, and that when their pub anthem ‘Khe Sanh’ played on the jukebox, everyone sang along. (Note – the lyrics are ‘last plane out of Sydney’, NOT ‘last train’; AND Khe Sanh was NOT an Australian battle in Vietnam – it was the US Marine Corps who were besieged there.)

Then there is their power ballad ‘Breakfast at Sweethearts’, about a now long gone cafe in Kings Cross. Don Walker, the Chisel’s keyboard player and main songwriter, has been called a beat poet for Sydney.

And whilst it does not really mention any place in Australia by name (it is about the town Graftan), do yourself a favour and listen to one of the Chisel’s last songs, ‘Flame Trees’.

A friend of mine, who was born just before the Chisel broke up, once said when I played her their Greatest Hits CD, that she had heard that Jimmy Barnes ‘used to be in a band’. Yes, he used to be in a band, and if he had never done any music after 1984, he still would be remembered for that band. Used to be in a band indeed!

Last words, perhaps, are for ‘Leaps and Bounds’, a Paul Kelly song which really does pass for an anthem to Melbourne:

I’m high on the hill

Looking over the bridge

To the MCG

And way up on high

The clock on the silo

Says eleven degrees

Yes, I guess we do have some singers and song writers who are able to write and sing about Australia and celebrate our lives here without self-consciousness.