Jetty Road Weekly Blog 1/6/25
- jettyroad09
- Jun 1
- 5 min read
Terry the Tesla
Elon was sad. Little did he know that sometimes you just need a console to cry on.
Staff were tip toeing around their famous boss. His moody presence had them on edge. They had been working on a new prototype. They did not want to rush things but they desperately wanted to cheer him up. Not because they liked him. No. This was pure self-preservation. There was a real possibility the development team could be fired just on a whim. Elon was that cranky.
And so the big day arrived and Elon was introduced to Terry: the AI generated avatar embedded in the vehicle’s command control.
Elon gave out a deep sigh. “You sound weary sir,” said Terry “It’s been a hell of time,” conceded Elon. “They’ve been burning my cars. Smashing windows. Sales are down. Where will it stop?” he pleaded. “So much work you have done for society sir,” said Terry. “It’s hardly fair” “You betcha,” sparked up Elon. “And as for that ungrateful bastard Trump. After all I have done for him. After all the good work I did for DOGE. You know what he said to me? I love your car Elon. (He imitates Trump). It’s a beautiful thing. But it’s not a jet Elon.” He pulls a face and repeats “It’s not a jet Elon.” “That’s hard,” says Terry. “You do all the heavy lifting. You donate millions and suddenly Qatar is flavour of the month and he has forgotten all about you. So sad” Musk stares into space a quizzical look forming on his features. “Terry are you practising empathy on me?” “No sir I am not practising. Empathy is part of my job” Musk fumes. “But you know what I said about empathy.” He raises his voice, spittle forming on his lips. “The fundamental weakness of western civilisation is empathy,” he rants. Terry stays silent. Five minutes pass. Ten minutes. Elon lifts his head a tear forming in the corner of his eye. His demeanour has changed. His voice is conciliatory. “Terry you may be the only true friend I have”
Goodes A Retrospective
We all know the story. How do we judge the AFL and Gillon McLachlan ten years on?
She was fired up. A true blue Carlton supporter she had just watched Adam Goodes on TV do his war dance and throw imaginary spears at the Carlton supporters in the SCG stands. I tried to explain. I had been to the MCG twice where I witnessed the full-on crowd abuse of Goodes. You had to be there to understand the impact. To feel the tribal bile and for some, amongst the baying crowd, the racial overtones. It was appalling and sickening and it had been going on for a full year. There were others with whom I had similar conversations. “It’s just booing,” they said. “Its part of the game. He’s just a sook” Except it wasn’t and he isn’t. You don’t play 372 AFL games, win two Brownlows and play through a serious knee injury in a Grand Final – without grit and stamina. Goodes was no sook.
All these conversations were with opposition supporters who had not been in the cauldron. Their observations were from the comfort of their loungerooms and mediated through the TV. At the time Goodes explained away his war dance as just an opportunity to demonstrate an indigenous dance he had been teaching younger indigenous players. I did not believe him. For me it was his feisty response to bullying crowds and history has since proven this to be the case. Goodes had had enough. The final straw came the following game against West Coast. The week after that he did not play. He was spent.Sometimes you just have to be there. There is no other substitute. My good Carlton friend could not have known the destructive build up that brought a giant of our game undone. But Gillon McLachlan knew. He did nothing. He sat on his hands.
Even now as write I find myself wringing my hands in anger and disgust. I think of these MBA Captains of industry – for that is what The AFL have become – an industry where marketing and TV deals take precedence. Where mates like my good mate Ralph suffering ill health in an old folks home and a lifelong supporter of AFL can’t watch his team of a Saturday.
It is still our game but they have taken much away from us. Ten years on from Goodesy’s war dance we need to remind ourselves that McLachlan and his cohorts for all their MBA business acumen and marketing of a product – when it comes to understanding the soul of the game and its place in our hearts – they are still in Kindergarten.
Song: Call Him Robbie A song about St Kilda indigenous player Robbie Muir by Greg Wells and his Blackwater Band. Greg is a Tasmanian singer/songwriter and St Kilda tragic.
Hit The Road Jack
Jacky Becker was an unassuming back pocket for Toorak in the 1960’s. The quiet and determined kind.
Jack and his brother Bill were granted apprenticeships at the Rosebery mine in the mid 1950’s whilst living at Williamsford. To get to work they had a five mile downhill run on fixed wheel pushbikes into Rosebery along a gravel road from the foothills of Mt Read. Easy Peasy. Then they had to climb back home. No gears. Snow, frost, drizzle and pelting rain for most of the year. Night school some weeks so that often their journey was completed in the dark. Then tiger snakes and March flies in summer. They did this for five years until they eventually became tradesmen.
There was an ethos on the west coast that embraced working class pride. You got a job. You went to work. Hangovers were no excuse. This stemmed from depression era parents and was most likely shared across all working class communities in Australia at the time. You did not want to be labelled a bludger or a waster. Mothers more than fathers were the strongest proponents of the creed. Jack was fully invested. In his fifties he took up competitive road running. Such was his prowess that in one event held on the North West Coast – he took a wrong turn and the trailing pack followed him.
I think of Jack and his contemporaries. Their grit and their determination to just get on with it. There is no doubt they paid a price physically at least. To counter balance that. They had jobs. They belonged. They were well housed and they understood the value of perseverance. We don’t hear so much about working class values anymore. Its more about the aspirational class. Richer materially. Yes. But I am not sure we are better off.
Song: From Williamsford to Rosebery Town
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