Blog

It's 1984, and we're at boarding school. The debate about whether or not to dam the Franklin River was raging. This was a significant environmental issue in Australia, as the Franklin River was one of the last wild rivers in Tasmania. Conservationists, led by Bob Brown, were fighting to protect it from being flooded by a proposed hydroelectric dam, which would have destroyed its unique ecosystem and cultural heritage. Most of us didn't give a flying toss about rivers, dams, or Tasmania, for that matter. We cared about our sport, dodging teachers, and sneaking as much contraband as we could into the dorms—cigarettes, dirty magazines, and the occasional bottle of cheap booze.Yet somehow, the dam debate became the unofficial blood sport of the school. As my mate Lillee put it, it was a chance to "pick a side and chuck some fists." Back then, there were two types of people: the "No Dams" crowd and the "Dams On!" gangs. This split ran deep, like raw, adolescent tribalism. Say "Bob Brown," and half the school would yell "Legend!" while the other half would sneer or hurl something unpleasant from a lunch tray. None of us really understood Bob Brown's conservation agenda, but we knew he once socked John Howard through a car window, and that made him an instant legend.The "Dams On!" crew got their kicks modifying signs and stickers all over town. The "No Dams" stickers were fair game. Sometimes, the "No" was scratched off; other times, it was swapped for "Yes" or Lillee's personal favourite: "Dams or Die." We turned the river into a joke, our defiance spelled out in half-ripped bumper stickers. I’ll admit, I found it funny in the way a moth finds circling a lightbulb funny—irresistible, even if it meant getting singed.Then came that unforgettable afternoon when Tiny Marriott got nabbed by the local cop. Ironically, Tiny wasn't small; he just had a knack for slipping away unnoticed. But not this time. He was standing in plain view, hands all over a "No Dams" sticker on the back of someone's car. The cop appeared out of nowhere, like a phantom in blue. Tiny tried the old, "Just admiring it, officer," he said with a forced grin, his eyes darting nervously and his shoulders tensing up, but the cop wasn’t having it. He made Tiny open his bag, and out spilled twenty-three "No Dams" stickers—peeled off every car between here and the bakery.Tiny got hauled off for "petty theft of political paraphernalia." It was the most Tasmanian-sounding crime I'd ever heard—after all, where else would stealing bumper stickers about a river be considered a political act? When he came back, we paraded him through the dorm like a martyr. He’d suffered for the cause—though none of us could actually articulate what that "cause" was, beyond the thrill of getting our hands dirty and racking up detentions.It was my first taste of what they called "environmentalism," though our motives were murky at best. We didn’t know what we were fighting for, why we cared, or even what a dam really did. All we knew was it was a fight worth having, if only to escape the monotony of curfews and study hours. Looking back, I can’t help but laugh. There we were, tangled up in Tasmanian history, sticking our noses into politics like the clueless fools we were. But maybe that was the point—getting involved, even without fully understanding, taught me that standing up for something matters. Now, I see environmentalism differently; it's no longer just about the thrill, but about protecting what we have for future generations. For better or worse, we became part of something bigger than ourselves—even if it was just for the laughs, the bruises, and the stolen stickers.FSF &nbsp;

My Greta Moment

I see the photo in the paper— The Herald, 26th September, '79: bold letters decree, "Spectators restricted— twenty-four cans each at the Melbourne Cricket Ground."A window to the day when lawmakers perfected the fine art of saving you from yourself— refining freedom, pressing it into cheap conformity. Society laid morality atop absurd law, social media spread it like gospel to the desperate flock.Instead of shouting "stop," you open the door— beckon Big Brother with a smile.A trip to the MCG now— queuing for a single light beer, one grim can at a time, barely a murmur. You are protected, protected from yourself, by a loving government.Now, we celebrate rules, impose them on others— personal tastes dressed as public interest.Because one old woman finds drunks unsightly, feels they invade space, we strip their right to drink.And if that’s so, let drunks band together, declare poetry unproductive, ban it for national efficiency.

Mother State

Sterling, you’re the boy with a sunburned neck, squinting under the midday Queensland sky, while the golfers around you mumble about the weight of irons and drivers; and you nod, not listening, because you’re watching the way the wealthy drift by like clouds that have no need to rain on anybody. Then there’s Killian; hair like sunlit water, laughter like the rustle of leaves on the club’s big oak. She breezes past in her crisp clothes, her teenage certainty, her tan arms gleaming, and you, a kid of grocery store aisles and long hours caddying, think, Ah, that is what life could be. Fast forward—there’s you in a suit, grinning too wide, clutching the keys to a car too expensive, an apartment with a view, a wine glass that never leaves your hand. And every polished floor, every glittering river of Brisbane at night is just you, still trying to make that distance between you and her a little smaller. And one night, she returns; older, yes, but with that same gleam, the boldness you’d first seen by the golf course, and she leans close, laughing about “the good old days,” as if she’d always known what this meant to you. She leaves, of course. Killian always did. Off to Melbourne, or was it the Gold Coast this time? It hardly matters. Because you’d be there waiting again, feeling the hollow place in your chest fill up briefly like an empty tin can that catches the rain. And then, news of her; Killian, settled in suburbia, a husband with dirty hands, children with skinned knees, a garden of flowers that need watering. You picture her, the Killian who once held a room like a small sun, now clinking mugs of coffee with her husband as the sun rises over a modest backyard. So here you are, fingertips cold against the river railing, watching the city lights flicker like stars on water. And you finally see her for what she was; not a woman, really, but a life you wanted to live, a mirage that drifted in and out, leaving only the faint, mocking echo of laughter on a golf course. FSF

A winters dream

Life ain’t nothin’ but the grind of habit, the same weed bunts, same whiskey mornings, each drag a line etched in the ledger of your soul. It's the push and pull of moments— those tired bones rolling out of bed, your boots scraping the pavement of another day.But habits alone? No, it’s the gut-punch actions that matter, the swing you throw, the woman you chase, the job you quit without a goddamn plan. It’s your habit’s bastard offspring, born from repetition and fired by chaos, each step shaped by the unpredictable slap of reality, the external factors—the rains that drown, the sun that blinds, and the love that burns.And then there’s belief— the crooked lens through which you see the whole rotten show. It's the lie you tell yourself just to keep moving, or the truth you cling to when the night grows too cold. Belief takes your habits, twists 'em, makes you think you can do better than you did yesterday, or makes you sure you can’t.But the big joke is physics— the final line you can't cross. The goddamn boundaries you were born into, the way your fist feels like nothing against a brick wall, the way dreams crash down at the speed of gravity. It’s the cruel math of the universe: all your efforts, all your intentions, slammed against the hard rules of this indifferent cosmos.So here’s the sum: it’s two times your habits, soaked in the sweat of action, multiplied by the lies you believe, and all of it held down by gravity, by death, by inevitability. The formula of existence isn’t elegant— it’s messy, it's cruel, and it's got whiskey on its breath. But goddamn, it's life, and it's all you've got.

The sum of it all

I have always been terrified of good advice, For by my nature, I do the opposite—never precise. This makes me the perfect one to judge it well, For I’ve learned its worth where regrets dwell. Once, I was told: “Don’t go to the ECCA show, The flu is bad this year, as the snotty bogan kids know, They spread sickness like a rogue 5G beam, You’ll be sick for a month, a nightmare, not a dream.” I went. I caught Influenza A, And Whooping cough, too, I’m sorry to say. Sick for three months, in my stubborn vice, &nbsp;Proving that not going was indeed quality advice.

My methodology for weighing advice

Election day again. Queensland stumbles, a fool’s democracy— too damn hard, too goddamn unrewarding for anyone with fire to rise up, to make this place better. Politics here ain’t fierce, ain’t fierce enough— democracy should be a cage fight, sharp teeth and grit. Ideas should dance or die, succeed or burn out. It should pull you in, make you want it. Kids should have politicians on posters, right there next to rock stars and footballers. The whole deal should throb with passion, represent every face, every street, every corner. But no— what’ve we got? A tired, grey lineup: the empathy-dead party, the union cronies, the eco-huggers bent on rubbing trees back to the stone age, and the lone nutter with a joint in one hand and a rifle in the other— because why the hell not? I'm saying— enough of this. Let’s aim for a hundred parties, not two-and-a-half. Let’s make this cutthroat, make leadership glamorous. Show the world how to lead, by sheer will. It’s already broken, all it takes is guts, is fire, is balls. So do it.

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

My Greta Moment

Mother State

A winters dream

The sum of it all

My methodology for weighing advice

Election Day