The PR Blog

A Dusty Gulch Gazette Special Report

By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble, Chief Constitutional Rearrangement Correspondent

The Great Gift had finally been made.

Everything south of Caboolture -  Brisbane, the Gold Coast, and the entire rainbow-flag-waving, kombucha-brewing, protest-marching metropolitan experiment -  has been formally handed over to New South Wales.

A note was attached to the Gateway Bridge.

It read:

"Enjoy the house prices, the traffic, and the endless vegan festivals. Love, Proper Queensland."

And that, dear readers, was that.

What remained became officially known as Queensland Proper.

From Caboolture north and west stretched the real machinery of the state: cane fields, cattle stations, mines, fishing towns, the Reef, and enough open sky to make a man question both his significance and his hat size.

The population was smaller.

The hats were larger.

The conversations were shorter.

And the new capital was Dusty Gulch.

Population: 214.

Voting flies: approximately three million.

(The flies continue to deny allegations of electoral interference, although I note that every polling-booth sausage sizzle mysteriously disappeared within seventeen minutes.)

The relocation orders for the remaining public service were swift.

Every bureaucrat received a one-way bus ticket, a pair of RM Williams boots, and a government memo consisting of a single sentence:

"Your new office is at 26°S, 143°E. Bring sunscreen, a hat, and any practical skills you may have concealed from management."

I can easily imagine a bewildered policy adviser saying:

"Where exactly is 26°S, 143°E?"

"Queensland."

"Yes, but where in Queensland?"

"Exactly."

Neither sunscreen nor practical skills were supplied.

Now, I have survived fourteen Dusty Gulch summers.

I have endured droughts, floods, dust storms, locusts, cane toads, and whatever happened to Trevor's emus back in '24.

The Department of Environment, Energy and Climate Action commenced operations from a refurbished stockyard shed.

At 9:17am the inaugural strategic planning session began.

At 10:04am the temperature reached 42 degrees.

At 10:11am the Director was discovered quietly sobbing into a reusable paper straw.

At 10:18am the straw softened and folded in half.

Morale never fully recovered.

By lunchtime half the department had resigned and one fellow from Strategic Climate Pathways was attempting to hitchhike south using a corflute sign that simply read:

"TO ANYWHERE WITH SHADE."

The new Minister responsible, a cattleman from Julia Creek whose forearms resembled bridge pylons, reviewed the department's strategic roadmap.

He turned one page.

Then another.

Then looked up.

"Righto," he said.

"Anything that doesn't need doing today doesn't need doing at all."

The survivors adapted.

Remarkably quickly.

Former policy officers who once spent entire afternoons debating stakeholder engagement frameworks began wearing thongs and carrying fencing pliers.

One former compliance manager now fixes windmills.

Another breeds Brahman cattle.

A third became so useful with a welding torch that locals now refer to him as The Infrastructure Stimulus Package.

The Equity and Inclusion Unit was reduced to a single employee.

Six months later she was mustering poddy calves, repairing trough floats, and explaining to visitors that genuine inclusion involved helping whichever neighbour's water pump had exploded this week.

Her annual diversity report consisted of one sentence:

"Everyone gets a hand when their bore collapses."

Auditors described the document as refreshingly concise.

Treasury accidentally balanced the state budget after three internet outages.

They attempted to recreate the miracle and failed.

The subsequent review was cancelled due to lack of funding.

The clarification budget was also cancelled.

I asked local publican Barry "Knuckles" Henderson how the budget had been balanced.

"Easy," he said.

"Ran out of money to waste."

Economists remain divided on the accuracy of this analysis.

Infrastructure delivered the greatest shock.

Roads under review for twelve years were graded within a fortnight.

Bridge repairs occurred before the next election cycle.

A new dam was discussed over three beers, approved after four, and completed before the paperwork arrived.

The paperwork eventually turned up eighteen months later requesting a feasibility study on the now-functioning dam.

The Productivity Commission's report into these events was one page long.

Its key finding:

"People stopped holding meetings because the meeting room air-conditioner broke."

Recommendation:

"Do not repair the meeting room air-conditioner."

Back in the newly acquired New South Wales territories, life continued as normal.

Residents of West End NSW posted emotional Threads updates regarding cultural displacement.

Panels were convened.

Listening circles were established.

Urgent working groups examined the impact of administrative separation on community mindfulness outcomes.

A preliminary discussion paper was released.

The executive summary was 187 pages long.

Nobody read it.

Not even the authors.

In Dusty Gulch, former senior policy advisers now repair windmills with fencing wire while muttering darkly about procurement regulations.

One threw a shifting spanner at me when I suggested a steering committee.

I took that as a no comment.

The Department of Strategic Futures eventually cancelled itself.

This was widely regarded as its most successful strategic decision.

Today the state government operates from three buildings, a machinery shed, and whichever pub currently has functioning air-conditioning.

Approval times have collapsed.

Meeting numbers have fallen sharply.

Common sense has reached levels previously considered unsafe by regulators.

The unofficial state motto remains under consideration.

Current favourite:

"Queensland Proper: Smaller. Hotter. Better."

Runner-up:

"If it can't survive a Dusty Gulch summer, it wasn't a good idea anyway."

The last known strategic planning document was blown off a veranda during a February willy-willy.

Nobody chased it.

Government has run perfectly well ever since.

Historians will argue whether Queensland Proper succeeded through careful reform or because everyone was simply too hot to argue.

Both explanations remain plausible.

Personally, having attended several Cabinet meetings, I lean toward the heat.

Now if you'll excuse me, the Department of Emergency Management has just issued a warning that Mrs McFookit is experimenting with air-fried curried cane toad again. She must be in her crazy old lady phase and Mayor Dusty McFookit will be anxious to have her back to the sultry Asian cuisine master... mind you, what triggered this sudden strange formation? 

Have I written myself into a corner? Why crispy toad? And why is Mrs McFookit carrying a hacksaw? 

Hopefully, by next week, I will have figured out the answer to this most baffling puzzle. 

Now if you'll excuse me, the Department of Emergency Management has just upgraded Mrs McFookit's air-fried curried cane toad experiment from "Concerning" to "Potentially Mobile."

Why she requires seventeen cane toads, a hacksaw, and three kilograms of curry powder remains unknown.

Mayor Dusty McFookit insists this is merely a phase and that she will soon return to producing the magnificent Asian cuisine for which she is famous. And back to her femme fatale personna... as Asian Strike Panther in charge of the Feline Five. 

This is Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble signing off and heading back to the abandoned wombat hole.

No Uber Eats for me this week.

I have no desire whatsoever to become Crispy Rat Surprise.

Stay twitchy, and keep your whiskers well clear of air fryers.

The situation continues to develop rapidly.