Being elected to local council is an extraordinary honour.

You stand before the community, take an oath, accept the responsibility entrusted to you and briefly experience the exhilarating delusion that you may now be in charge of something.

It passes.

I arrived at council knowing very little. After nearly four years, I estimate that I now understand approximately 10 per cent of what would make me the Councillor I want to be.

On a particularly good day, in an area I have studied carefully, that may rise to 15 or even 20 per cent.

This places me at a significant disadvantage to people who attended one council meeting, read half a Facebook post and achieved complete mastery of municipal government before lunch and gave me shit about one Council decision.

Fortunately, I do not appear to suffer from Dunning–Kruger syndrome? (If you don’t know what that is click here to find out a little secret – if may change the way your see the world?)

I remain painfully aware of how much I do not know. It is an inconvenient condition in politics, where confidence is often considered a perfectly acceptable substitute for competence.

At first, I assumed Elected Members governed the council.

Adorable.

I soon discovered that Councils are supported by an administrative machine that existed long before any particular councillor arrived and has already worked out how things are done, why they are done and why your suggestion cannot possibly be considered until it has been referred to a committee, examined by another committee and returned eighteen months later as a recommendation to continue doing what was already being done.

I asked questions.

Then I asked again.

Then I discovered one of the essential skills of public office: asking the same question in six different ways until somebody finally identifies the precise person I apparently should have asked in the first place.

My colleagues and I have not always agreed. The Mayor, the Chief Executive Officer, the general managers and I have occasionally looked at the same issue and arrived at different conclusions.

This is known as democracy.

On social media, it is known as corruption, incompetence, conspiracy or Tuesday and a myriad of other names, I, the Mayor, the other elected Members and our competent members of Administration have been called.

Nevertheless, when difficulties arrived, and they certainly did, we kept working. Sometimes we found ourselves standing in the middle of the storm asking the traditional local-government strategic question:

“What the……!”
“You’ve been doing what….!!!!!!!”
“How did this happen….????”
Where do go from here…..?”

The answer was generally: everywhere, immediately, with insufficient money, incomplete records and a community understandably wondering why it had not already been fixed.

Then the State Government postponed the council elections.

The Electoral Commission, whose specialist field is elections, advised that the election could not proceed as expected. It is reassuring to know that even highly specialised organisations occasionally struggle with the one activity, their one job, mentioned in their name.

Consequently, those of us who won the earlier popularity contest remain in office longer than originally advertised.

There is, however, an important lesson in all this.

When the next election eventually arrives, do not merely complain about the council you have. Put your hand up.

Stand for election.

Bring your knowledge, your criticism, your solutions and preferably a comfortable chair, to pre-read your 200-1000 page agendas, and because the meetings can be lengthy.

I have lived a life of service guided by the principle:

“No good deed goes unpunished.”

So, despite having now discovered exactly how difficult the job is, I may put my hand up again.

Not because I have earned the position.

Not because I deserve it.

And certainly not because local government is an efficient pathway to peace, financial prosperity, popularity or uninterrupted sleep.

I may stand again because walking away would waste the knowledge I have gained, the work still unfinished and the opportunity to do better. Because it would mean walking away from an Administration and group of Executive Leaders who have not just rebuilt but have in the process rebuild themselves and all those around them. And, mostly because our Mayor is known as one of the top 5 Mayors in the State; and she, yes a she, is 35 years old and in her first term and already done more than the previous 2 terms of her predecessors.

But, don’t worry about that? All ‘tall poppies’ will eventually get torn down by the rumour, innuendo and lies told about her, mostly be the uninformed, the ignorant, the bias and people in our world who don’t want to see it fixed, they just want to complain and be a victim of the infamous ‘they.’ At least the community, well a few can say, they were responsible for creating the government they deserve…..

But the same challenge applies to everyone else.

Do not throw away the opportunity to serve and then complain that nobody suitable volunteered.

Otherwise, after the next election, you may receive precisely the council you deserve. You may find, as it appears some of you have already, that you are being governed by your inferiors? And, you could do a better job. It’s just that you don’t?

I know one thing.

I tried and continue to try, and will try again. What have you done today to put your ‘skin in the game’…. I would suspect a ‘like’ a post or typing a comment from the safety of your keyboard.

I don’t normally write like this as I hate badly formatted sentences and paragraphs…. but his is what I wrote when I go home and found I didn’t care about the formatting, the typos, the gramma …. I just had to get a stay that in writing it the hardest thing was looking through the mist in my eyes….. I also like to have pictures to keep you interested, but in this story just make them up in your head……

I was walking home from the pub tonight.

Yes… again.

No, I’m not seeking treatment for that just yet.

On the way home I wandered past the library, which is a magnificent $750,000 public building. You paid for it. I paid for it. We all paid for it.

One bloke lives there.

Not works there.

Lives there.

Under the veranda.

Apparently the architectural plans forgot to include the “Homeless Accommodation” label, but life has a wonderful way of repurposing government infrastructure.

I met him yesterday.

Young bloke.

Sleeping rough.

Not because he wanted to become an “urban minimalist” or “embrace tiny living”, but because life kicked him square in the teeth.

I gave him my card.

Not my council card.

My personal card.

With my personal phone number.

You know… the dangerous thing we’re all told never to do because people might ring you.

He did.

He told me his story.

He’s from Wellington.

Young partner.

Young child.

Another baby on the way.

Got himself into trouble with drugs.

Made some dumb decisions.

So he packed everything he owned that would fit in his arms and came to the Riverland to do something that has almost become a revolutionary concept.

Find work.

Tonight I stopped and had another chat.

“Got a job,” he said.

I smiled.

“What are you doing?”

“Washing dishes.”

At the Indian takeaway.

Thirty bucks an hour.

The owner apparently committed the unforgivable crime of judging someone by whether they were prepared to work instead of which government form they’d completed.

Then came the bit that punched me in the chest.

The owner asked him,

“Do you want cash, or do you want me to keep it aside so you can send money home to your family?”

Read that again.

An immigrant businessman.

Running a takeaway.

Helping a homeless bloke earn money.

Helping him support his family.

Giving him dignity instead of pity.

So I walked into the restaurant.

Introduced myself.

Handed the owner my card.

Told him if he ever needed anything, he could ring me.

Because what he did tonight wasn’t corporate social responsibility.

It wasn’t a strategic initiative.

It wasn’t community engagement.

It wasn’t an action item in a five-year strategic plan.

It wasn’t funded by a grant.

There wasn’t a steering committee.

There wasn’t a governance framework.

There wasn’t a colourful brochure.

There wasn’t a logo.

There wasn’t a KPI.

There wasn’t even a bloody morning tea.

It was just…

Community.

Imagine that.

Meanwhile…

Our town has enough organisations, charities, committees, advisory groups, funded projects, outreach programs, strategic plans and branded SUVs to invade a small country.

Everyone has uniforms.

Everyone has policies.

Everyone has measurable outcomes.

Everyone has annual reports.

Everyone has mission statements.

Everyone has lanyards.

Everyone has matching polo shirts.

Everyone has a Facebook page telling us how compassionate they are.

And somehow…

The homeless bloke still sleeps under the bloody library.

Funny, isn’t it?

The bloke actually fixing the problem isn’t one of the services.

He’s the bloke cooking butter chicken.

I came home tonight feeling strangely hopeful.

Not because we’ve solved homelessness.

We haven’t.

Not because government suddenly became competent.

Steady on…

But because two ordinary blokes quietly reminded me what charity actually looks like.

One had enough courage to ask for work.

The other had enough character to say yes.

No committee.

No consultation.

No twelve-month pilot program.

Just one human helping another.

Earlier today a very dear friend gave me a kick up the backside.

She told me to stop wrestling with gatekeepers, self-appointed community royalty and the people who believe having a street named after them somehow qualifies them to decide the future of everyone else.

She told me my job isn’t to roll around in the mud with them.

It’s to climb higher.

To think strategically.

To lead.

She’s probably right.

Annoyingly.

I hate it when younger people are wiser than me.

It’s deeply inconvenient.

Because lately I have been questioning whether I should simply walk away.

Walk away from council.

Walk away from community politics.

Walk away from trying.

Walk away from people who seem to spend more energy protecting their little kingdoms than building a better town.

Then tonight…

A homeless bloke and a struggling  Indian take away chef reminded me why I started.

Not because communities are perfect.

They’re not.

Mine certainly isn’t.

But because every now and then someone quietly does the right thing when nobody’s watching.

No applause.

No recognition.

No photo in the paper.

No award.

Just humanity.

My mother understood that.

After she died, people I’d never met came to tell me how she’d quietly paid for wheelchairs, helped families, encouraged staff and supported people she barely knew.

She’d sworn them all to secrecy.

That’s charity.

Real charity.

Not the sort that needs an annual report.

The sort that leaves no empty chairs at funerals because so many people loved you.

So maybe that’s my lesson tonight.

Maybe communities aren’t saved by strategies.

Maybe they’re saved one dishwasher, one conversation and one act of quiet kindness at a time.

Mind you…

If anyone from one of our forty-seven funded community organisations is reading this, don’t panic.

I’m sure there’s already a working party being established to investigate whether washing dishes aligns with the Community Wellbeing Framework 2030.

There’ll probably be a consultation.

Three consultants.

A logo.

A strategic action plan.

And if we’re lucky…

By about 2029…

Someone might remember to ask the homeless bloke what he actually needed.

He already told us.

He needed a job.

One bloke listened and gave him a job, which he probably could have done himself for nothing…. but the bloke who was trying needed a hand…….

Everyone else was busy measuring compassion, virtue signalling and redesigning their corporate logo…..

Before anyone reaches for the keyboard, takes a deep breath and types something they may later regret, I have prepared two short community guides explaining the Berri Barmera Council’s Draft Annual Business Plan and Draft Long Term Financial Plan.

They are not Council documents.

They are my personal interpretation of the information contained in the official plans, written in plain English for people who probably do not have the time, interest or enthusiasm required to work through pages of budgets, depreciation, asset renewal figures and financial forecasts.

That is not a criticism. Most people have lives to live, families to look after, businesses to run and bills of their own to pay.

The Annual Business Plan is essentially about what Council proposes to do during the next financial year, what services and projects it intends to provide, and how those things will be funded.

The Long Term Financial Plan asks the larger and more uncomfortable question:

Can we afford the future we are planning?

Neither document makes particularly light reading. They deal with rate increases, debt, roads, buildings, wastewater infrastructure, staff costs, depreciation and the growing cost of maintaining assets built by previous generations.

There is no secret pool of money hidden behind the Council chamber.

Every service costs something. Every asset eventually needs repairing or replacing. Delaying maintenance generally does not make it cheaper, and doing nothing is still a decision, often an expensive one.

That does not mean residents should simply accept everything placed before them. People have every right to question the figures, challenge priorities, suggest alternatives and tell Council when they believe it has got something wrong.

But there is a difference between criticism and abuse.

Council staff live in our community. Councillors live in our community. We shop in the same shops, drive over the same potholes, pay rates and charges, attend the same sporting clubs and hear the same concerns around the supermarket aisle.

Nobody involved is perfect, and neither are the plans.

However, posting insults, accusations and recriminations without reading the information does not fix a road, renew a wastewater pipe or reduce Council debt. It merely creates more noise around decisions that are already difficult enough.

I prepared these guides because I am tired of seeing serious community discussions reduced to anger, personal attacks and claims that anyone who disagrees must be corrupt, incompetent, entitled or somehow opposed to the interests of the Riverland.

We can do better than that.

You may agree with my interpretation of the plans. You may disagree completely. That is democracy.

All I ask is that people look at the information, consider the choices and contribute respectfully.

The Riverland was built by generations of people who worked, volunteered, argued, compromised and occasionally admitted that somebody else may have had a reasonable point.

Perhaps we could try a little more of that.

Read the Community Guides

Well, here we are.

The ABC has had its say, the Murray Pioneer has had its say, and the community has had the opportunity to have its say, although I must admit I have been pleasantly surprised that, to date, I have not been attacked on social media.

Time will tell, of course, because people who believe they have ammunition, do have a remarkable habit of eventually pulling the trigger, or throwing the hand grenade, especially when a keyboard gives them the courage and protection that a face to face conversation doesn’t.

But before anything else is said, the central point remains simple. I drove over the prescribed limit, I pleaded guilty, I was convicted, I was fined, I lost my licence for six months, and I accept all of that.

There is no clever sentence, no media criticism, no public explanation, no personal history, and no amount of reflection that changes the fact that I got it wrong. I have said that before, and I will keep saying it, because accountability is not a line you say once in the hope people move on. It is something you carry, and in my case it now has two wheels, a helmet, and the real possibility of being humbled by headwinds and magpies.

Yes, this is the new bike.

For the next six months, when people see me riding around Berri, Barmera, or wherever my legs and remaining dignity can take me, they should consider themselves lucky they are not me. That is the reality.

For the media, this may be a story. For readers, it may be a few minutes over coffee. For Facebook, it may be a potential bonfire, although so far the matchbox has remained surprisingly closed. For me, however, it is now daily life.

That is the part easily missed in a headline.

The ABC moves on. The Murray Pioneer moves on. The newspaper eventually finds itself wrapped around food scraps, sitting in a recycling bin, or lining the bottom of the cocky cage. The social media attention, if it comes, will also move on, because outrage has a short attention span and a very busy diary.

But I will still be without a licence and working out how to get to Council duties, community commitments, appointments, family obligations, seeing friends, just going out for a meal and all the ordinary things most people do without even thinking about it.

That is the real consequence. It is not a 20 second news grab or a headline. It is not a public shaming exercise that ends when people get bored. for me it is every day, for six months, and I accept that because consequences are supposed to be inconvenient.

I also want to be clear that I am not asking for sympathy. My website is called Being A Better Man, not Being A Perfect Man, Being A Saint, or Being A Bloke Who Has Never Stuffed Anything Up And Would Like A Certificate Of Achievement.

The point has always been growth, reflection, humour, humility, resilience, and trying to make the next decision better than the last one.

This time, I learned the hard way with a six month daily calender reminder attached to it.

I also want to acknowledge the Berri Barmera Council’s response. The Council has nothing to justify for my conduct, and I agree with the position that has been taken.

I remain able to perform my duties as an elected member. Not having a driver’s licence does not prevent me from reading agendas and documents (about 80% of a Councillor’s life!!), attending meetings, asking questions, representing residents, considering risk, challenging decisions, supporting good governance and financial management, or doing the work I was elected to do.

It makes some of the logistics harder, but it does not make my commitment weaker and my promise to be transparent and accountable thrown out with last weeks Murray Pioneer.

That matters to me, because I did not stand for Council to be popular, comfortable, or decorative, and I can tell you the $15,000 a year allowance gets burned quickly in time, transport and stress. I stood because I believe local government matters, community service matters, accountability matters, and because I would rather be in the arena trying to do something useful than sitting safely outside it throwing cheap advice at those who are.

This week has also reminded me of something about public life.

Some people will judge fairly. Some will judge harshly. Some will wait quietly to see what happens next. Some will be kinder than expected. Some will be worse than expected. Some will read the whole story. Some will stop at the headline and feel fully qualified.

But I will not let one serious mistake define the whole of me.

I am also a proud father, a proud former Police Officer, a proud former Detective, a mental health advocate, a councillor, a community volunteer, a traveller all over the world, a writer, a frontend loader/backhoe driver and someone who has been through enough difficult chapters to know that shame only wins when you hide from it and let it build into crippling regret without a lesson attached.

I have also not hidden in the preceding three years on Council. I have replied to many social media posts, putting my direct phone number and email address on social media and invited people to contact me directly. To date, I would estimate I have done this 50 times, and to date, not one person has taken up that offer, which says something about how public debate now works.

It is easier to post than to talk.
It is easier to accuse than to ask.
It is easier to throw stones from behind a screen than to have a proper conversation with a real person.

As for the Murray Pioneer, I appreciated the respectful conversation I had with the editor, but I still think there is a fair question about journalistic depth when an article appears to lean heavily on the ABC report, my letter, and my blog, with the ancient and noble craft of copying and pasting apparently still alive and well in local journalism.

I understand why I was named. I am an elected member. I expect and accept public interest.

But I also noticed that two other drink driving matters were reported in the same edition without names, including one involving a higher reading. I am not saying those people should have been named. I am saying consistency and context matter, particularly when reputations, public confidence, and fairness are involved.

So where does this leave me?

It leaves me remorseful, accountable, embarrassed, punished, and still standing. It also leaves me riding a bike.

There may even be benefits. I may get fitter. I may feel closer to nature. I may discover parts of town I normally drive past. I may also discover that nature includes wind, rain, flies, magpies, uneven roads, and the quiet public humiliation of arriving somewhere sweaty when everyone else arrived by air conditioning.

So if you see me on the bike, wave.
If you want to talk, stop me.
If you want to criticise me, that is your right, I have earned some of it, but, expect a reply.
If you want to understand me, ask me, talk to me, get to know me.

This matter is not over for me because the articles have been printed. It is not over because the court has spoken. It is not over because the headline fades. It continues every day for the next six months and into the future when I’m driving again. It is all, not really about the driving….?

The point of a consequences… is they often keep on giving….

I wish I had learned the lesson before I had to live it…

Now I will live it…

With my personal strength, resolve, integrity and character in tact….

and… a helmet on my head! And, knowing my luck, probably into a headwind in the pouring rain!

Australia Day rolls around and I feel two things at once.

I feel proud. And I feel… careful.

Proud, because I love this country. Not in the loud, chest-thumping way. In the quiet, lived-in way. The way you love the place that gave you your first breath, your first scrape of gravel on a knee, your first job, your first heartbreak, your first mates, your first “how ya going?” from a stranger who meant it.

Careful, because I know there will be protests, and I know the words will be sharp: “Invasion Day.” And I get why people feel pain. I’m not blind to history. I’m not trying to sandpaper the past into something comfortable. I know settlement wasn’t always kind. I know terrible things were done. I know Aboriginal people have had a hard go of it since western settlement, and that’s putting it politely.

But here’s the hard bit for people like me: I didn’t do that.

I was born here. So were my mum and dad, my birth mum and dad, and my adopted mum and dad too. I didn’t arrive on a ship with a musket and a flag. I didn’t write the policies, run the missions, make the removals, or sign off on the “experts” who thought they were doing good while causing damage they didn’t understand.

And, I know something else that doesn’t get said much: history can hurt more than one way, to more than one group, for more than one reason.

I was adopted. And there were hundreds of white kids taken from white mothers too, because once upon a time it wasn’t acceptable to have a child out of wedlock. Authorities

thought they were doing “the right thing.” Same story, different uniforms. It came with consequences no one wanted to look at until much later. Pain doesn’t check your skin tone before it arrives. It just arrives.

My pain, your pain, doesn’t cancel anyone else’s pain. It doesn’t compete with it. It just sits alongside it and says, “I’m here too.”

And then came more people. The Chinese. The Afghans. Yes, the camel men, the ones who helped open up the inland and left a legacy most of us never learned properly at school. Those camels are still out there, tough as old boots, so good we even sell them overseas now. Then the ten-pound poms. Then Greeks and Italians. Then Vietnamese, the people who came here after we’d just fought a war with their homeland… or a “police action,” depending on who’s writing the headline.

All of that is part of us now. That’s not a threat. That’s the miracle of it.

So when someone calls me an invader, I don’t get angry first. I get confused. Because, I’ve spent my whole life trying to do what I thought Australians do.

I thought being Australian meant you were a bit of a larrikin but you turned up when it counted. Brave when you had to be. You stood up for people who couldn’t stand up for themselves. You looked after the sick, the weak, the lonely, the person who didn’t fit. You said please and thank you. You gave everyone a fair go, until they betrayed you, and then you said, “Sorry mate, can’t do it,” and you moved on without carrying hate around like a backpack full of rocks.

I thought we were the people who tell the truth and still be mates afterwards.

We built things. We explored. We farmed. We grazed. And we farmed and grazed in some of the harshest country in the world; and we thrived. We carved towns out of dust and stubbornness. We also built the kind of country where someone can have a laugh about a big guitar, a big prawn, a big boot, a big merino! Where I live we even had a big orange that went broke. Honestly, these things are so Australian they should be on the coat of arms next to the kangaroo and emu. We can’t even keep our giant fruit financially stable, but we’ll die trying. That’s our brand.

We also fought wars. For allies, for mates, and sometimes because we were told it was the right thing to do. We defended our own northern shores. People died. Good people. Young people. People whose names still sting when you read them on a plaque. We remember them “at the going down of the sun”… and in the morning too, whether anyone’s watching or not.

So, why do so many of our young people now look at service in defence, police, emergency services, even community leadership and go, “Nah”? Maybe it’s more complicated than one reason. But, I do wonder if part of it is this? We’ve become a country where you can get shouted down for loving the place that raised you. Where pride gets treated like a crime scene. Where people who never carried the weight of service are sometimes the loudest voices. Voices, telling everyone else what they must say, what words they must use, what feelings they’re allowed to have.

And that leaves blokes like me, and plenty of women too, feeling a bit lost. Not hateful. Just… lost.

I’m a self-funded retiree. No concession card. No special deals. No freebies. I am not whinging here just stating the facts. I worked, I paid taxes, I put a few dollars away. I wanted a quiet retirement and to give something back. Not because I’m after applause, but because I’m grateful. I’ve served as a cop, 38 years, my youth gone on years of shift work and missed

Christmas lunches, walking the New years eve street breaking up fights not raising a beer, birthdays, my kid growing up and a few days in hospital getting stitched up. I’ve served in the community because I saw the purpose of duty and fulfilling an oath. I now serve as a local elected member on our local council. Yeah, I get paid. I worked out the hourly rate for the hours I do and it works out to be about. $3.50 an hour. And I don’t reckon I do enough. I put up with the jibes, derogatory comments, attacks and complaints from those that have never served. The parochial who’s depth and breadth of their experience doesn’t extend beyond the next town.

I’m not asking for a medal, because I never got those either. I’m just asking to feel welcome in my own home, my own town, my own country.

Because, I can’t feel guilty for something I didn’t do.

I’ll never apologise for somebody else catching influenza. I will say a heartfelt, “I’m sorry you’re going through that.” How can I’ll help you get better if you’ll let me. That’s what mates do. That’s what humans do when they’re at their best.

And that’s what I want Australia Day to be.

Not a day to deny the past. Not a day to weaponise the past. Not a day to point fingers like we’re all standing in some moral courtroom. But a day where we can say:

• Yes, some things were wrong.
• Yes, some people carry pain that deserves respect.
• Yes, we can tell the truth without tearing each other apart.
• And yes we can still love this country.

Because loving Australia doesn’t mean pretending it’s perfect. It means believing it’s worth the effort.

I want a country where Aboriginal kids feel proud and safe and strong, not just “acknowledged.” Where culture is treasured, their communities are supported properly, and their voices are respected, not used as political footballs.

I want a country where migrants feel like they belong without having to erase who they are. Where difference isn’t feared, but it also isn’t forced into categories that divide us for sport.

And, I want a country where people like me can stand up on, January 26, or whatever day you choose and say, “I love Australia.” Because its not the date, it’s the sentiment that matters. And suing those words does not mean you are treated like a villain.

Because Australia Day, to me, isn’t about conquest. It’s about celebrating our home.

It’s about the weird, stubborn, generous, flawed, funny family we’ve become and the choice we have, right now, to keep choosing each other.

So this year, if you’re celebrating, celebrate with kindness. If you’re mourning, mourn with truth and forgiveness. If you’re angry, aim it at the systems that failed people not at the bloke next door who’s just trying to understand where he fits.

And if you see someone who looks like they’re walking around with a bit of quiet sadness under their smile, maybe just do the most Australian thing you can do:

Say ‘G’day mate, how ya going”. Offer a chair and have a chat.

Have a beer. Have a laugh. Tell the truth gently. listen more than you speak.

And then together let’s get on with the job of being Australians who smash it, not by shouting over each other, but by lifting each other up.

Because the past matters.

But so does what we do next.