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As the Xmas/New Year break approaches many people will have their eyes on the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race; a traditional event starting on Boxing Day.

One of the several unticked items on my bucket list is to sail in the Sydney to Hobart. Back in the 1970’s and early 80’s I crewed on an ocean racer out of Sandringham Yacht Club in Melbourne. The boat I was on was a Carter 30, an English design that could better be described as a Slow Boat to China rather than a racing thoroughbred. 

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At the heart of the Christmas story rests some important lessons concerning free enterprise, government, and the role of wealth in society.

Let’s begin with one of the most famous phrases: “There’s no room at the inn.” This phrase is often invoked as if it were a cruel and heartless dismissal of the tired travelers Joseph and Mary. Many renditions of the story conjure up images of the couple going from inn to inn only to have the owner barking at them to go away and slamming the door.

In fact, the inns were full to overflowing in the entire Holy Land because of the Roman emperor’s decree that everyone be counted and taxed. Inns are private businesses, and customers are their lifeblood. There would have been no reason to turn away this man of royal lineage and his beautiful, expectant bride.

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Samuel Pepys is probably one of the most famous diarists in history and his words are treasured throughout the English speaking world. 

A politician from the 1600's, he captured the spirit and soul of Britain in those days of an era we no longer recognise. Though, in some cases, perhaps we do, all rather too well.

I read Mr Pepys most excellent diary entries for Christmas Day and Boxing Day 1665. Back during the days of the Plague, 400 years ago. So much has changed, yet so little. 

It is something millions of people around the English-speaking world did or will do on Christmas day no doubt: To feel a need to read diary extracts from a long gone diarist or two, though they probably do not see it as such. The Bible. 

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Only minutes before midnight on Christmas Eve, 1953, the engine driver  of the Wellington  to Auckland express train will notch back  to walking pace  in a remote area of New Zealand's North Island's 'volcanic plateau. Most passengers  will be sleeping.

The train consisting of eight carriages, a heating unit, postal and guard's van will approach the  double span steel trestle  bridge, lit by the headlight of the powerful throbbing DX locomotive. At a strategic point the driver will cast a floral tribute  into the darkness, where it will come to rest in the gentle waters below to mark the tragic events that occurred here 70 years ago in 1953.

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" A relative who lives in Brisbane was telling me about her visit doing Christmas shopping. She wanted to buy for her young children a Nativity Scene so she could put it on the table and explain the meaning of Christmas. Do you know that none of the shop assistants had a clue what she was talking about or even the real meaning of Christmas. This shows how much Australia has lost over the past generation.
So much for politicians enriching our society by bringing in aliens. To me it shows how bad Australia has got" 

And that got me thinking about a Christmas a long time ago. 

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General Sir John Monash is one of the truly great Australians. He was an Australian military and civilian leader as well as a great contributor to Australian life. His achievements are outstanding. In my opinion, Monash was not just our most outstanding military leader but our most outstanding citizen of all time.

The achievements of John Monash are so extensive and comprehensive that I cannot condense them into a single post,  brief enough to retain the reader’s interest. Therefore I have decided to present them in six episodes of which this is the first. The episodes have been divided into specific eras of his life; Pre 1901 (two parts), 1901-1915 and 1916-1918 and Post WW1. 

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“It’s the ‘everyday’ experiences we encounter along the journey to who we wanna be that will define who we are when we get there.”
 
And that is my life. My experiences in a time of war where I lived in sheltered oblivion to what was happening outside my small community back in the 1930's and 1940's. A time of freedom and joy. A time of happiness and a reality that we never knew was threatening us.
 
Today, it seems that young people are burdened with worry and are frightened. Had my parents told us that we were under threat of invasion from Japan in WW II , I have to ask myself: could I have enjoyed my childhood? 

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Some time ago I watched a series on Netflix called " Babylon Berlin." It awoke an interest in the Weimar Republic and the change that occurred in Germany between the First World War and the Second World War when Germany flirted with democracy under the leadership of Hindenburg, the President of Germany from 1925 until 1934.

It was raw, gritty, dark and often troubling. Explicit in its portrayal of the excesses that humanity can so often, like today, embrace or at the very least, tolerate or ignore.

I was struck by the divide between those who had so much and those who had so little. Much like our world today. 

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From the center of the continental United States to the middle of Australia is 9,241 miles. It’s a little further from London to Sydney—about 10,572 miles. But in economic matters—the laws of economics being both immutable and universal—the distances between the world’s cities and countries are far smaller.

I was recently reminded of this fact while researching the economic history of the Land Down Under. Curious to find out if Australia’s move away from a gold standard bore any similarities to events in the US and the UK, I discovered that the parallels are striking.

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Our Governments need to admit that they were wrong. Cut their losses and get us out of the boathouse and set sail once more. We have been at anchor too long. 

Set sail on already charted waters and dare to venture out of the so called safe harbour that is politically correct, poll driven mumbo jumbo " I am a rabid wanker and you should all be proud of it. " country. 

Can we just start sailing again because I am sick and tired of being stuck in limbo and my sails, quite frankly, are running out of puff. 

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By 7.30 am the morning sun had pushed far above a shimmering cloud line. Ignoring that it was final days of a bloody-hot Australian summer it still bit into the weathered necks of some thirty habitual punters who were already milling outside a locked security gate on the Eastern periphery of Sydney’s vast domestic airport.

Meanwhile, some 650 Kms. to the North West, in the NSW city of Armidale, officials were preparing for the 148th running of the Armidale Cup; a horse race that draws punters and good-time blokes from around the nation.

Through the chain-link fence and beyond the ragged grass awaited our chartered DC3.   

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