The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 22/5/2012

Dad used to buy a lump of rubbery, so called cheddar cheese. He would slice it up and put it neatly on our plates, right next to the lettuce leaf with sugar coating, one or two slices of carrot, half a tomato and a slice of polony.

Later on, in another country, I graduated to cottage cheese, then ricotta and, finally, back to a cheddar. But not that cheddar, this time the cheddar of the Dutch, the Swiss, fine cheddars, in particular, mature cheddars.

That began a lifelong search for a perfect cheese.

Many months ago after I had harangued the good people at Ringwould Dairy once too often about my current favourite, the goat’s cheese Rosa, the cheese maker fronted me and said: Why don’t you make your own.

When my son and I arrived, Toni, the cheese maker, gave us our instructions: It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy. Here are your boots, capes and gloves.

I laughed: Who are we, Batman and Robin? No, she replied, you’re the cleaners.

And that’s what we did most of the day, watched, learnt and cleaned.

It’s not easy making Rosa. For a start, Toni had her hands and arms in a vat large enough to hold her and one other, swirling and mixing, for what seemed like hours.

When she got out of the vat, she put me in. And once that was done, there were other things to be done and after each thing got done, things had to be cleaned. And that’s what took up most of the day.

Last Saturday, when the delectable Rosa sat on my home table, it didn’t last anywhere near as long as the day we spent making it, or cleaning up after it.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 8/5/2012

As we now know because people have been studying such things for a couple of decades, in any large office we can expect to find a number of disturbed humans per one hundred of the species.

Among the one hundred we might find at least one serious narcissist, a psychopath, a sociopath, a pathological liar, an incurable bully and a demented comedian.

Regular readers will no doubt pick the slot I might fill. Some types are hard to discover and I don’t have the space here to offer you full definitions.

I once worked in a large office in the middle of the Big Swirl, Perth, where the bully was the easiest to find and I baited him at every opportunity, but this was not enough, as he continued to intimidate friends of mine, mainly women.

One day, with my pulse racing, I confronted him as he sat behind his desk. When I say confront, I mean with pumped body and steel-tight mouth, and let him know in very clear and certain terms, that I would no longer tolerate his behaviour in my presence.

I never saw him again. He avoided me like the plague.

Hard to imagine, I know, but such folk as those on the above list still exist in large workplaces today and they often flourish because companies, corporations, institutions and departments encourage them, believing them to be crucial to their success.

This is dysfunctional thinking and always ends in tears.

Such behaviour should be confronted whenever it occurs and, as we know with all good bush fire control, sometimes you just have to lop the upper story or the fire spreads very quickly through the rest of the forest.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 24/4/2012

I have a confession, but let me be clear that I had no idea I was offending anyone. Here’s what happened.

Someone rang and offered me a job, for a lot of money and I took it.

Harmless enough, but now I know the only reason I got the job was because I am Australian, a man, and considered mildly humorous when standing out front in a room full of complete strangers.

That money could have gone to someone more deserving, someone with less cash than me, someone who had their cat put down last week and got a helluva shock when the vet’s invoice arrived.

Sure, I mock, but there has been much fuss in the eastern media over the past few weeks because a friend of mine, Anita Heiss, an Aboriginal woman who has been accused of being Aboriginal all her life, accepted a writers’ fellowship in recognition of the impressive body of work she has produced and on the understanding she would produce even more.

Imagine her shock and the shock of others like her to be criticised for taking advantage of their positions.

The farmers who take fuel subsidies, just because they are farmers and Australian citizens; anyone who exports and avails themselves of the services of Austrade, Australian trade missions, consular services, Ministerial agreements, free trade deals.

And shame on gold miners, taking advantage of their inability to mine any other mineral and thus avoiding paying the vast tax sums other miners fork out and, guess what, they won’t be paying a super profits tax when it kicks in.

But biggest shame on the banks, those monoliths that have a system designed for them, seemingly by them, and they make hay with it each and every day.

Disgraceful.

And what about you? Oh yes, take a good look at yourself, making the most of your subsidised lifestyle in the deep south and every so often I bet you book a show in the AEC, a building paid for by taxpayers. Shameful.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 10/4/2012

Inevitably when people from the Big Swirl, Perth, haven’t seen me for some time they ask: “Where are you living now? You back in Bridgetown?”

It is nice that people remember where you are from but it probably has a lot to do with my mouth, that slit in my face that never ceases to amaze me and more than once a week catches me unawares.

But no, although I will forever be “from” Bridgetown, there is no chance I will live there again. This is a matter of choice and has nothing to do with my brothers requesting that I never return because their business is worth more than their love for their “other brother”.

Once I reveal my current address to the Big Swirlers they always exclaim: “Oh, cold. How can you stand it? I could never live there.

There always seems to be a queue of responses sitting on my vocal cords, waiting an opportunity to emerge. Here are a few.

“I agree, Albany is much too close to the Antarctic and only last week my neighbour lost three toes overnight due to frostbite.”

“You know what, it is nowhere near as cold as Bridgetown, where you can wake up one morning in winter and find your partner frozen to the toilet seat.”

“I’m not sure you are aware but temperatures are rising so fast that over the next decade or two you will be rushing south and, guess what, we’ll have the No Vacancy sign up.”

They scoff. I laugh.

Sometimes they visit and when they do I pray for rain and cold, just to prove their misconceptions.

However, during my time as a volunteer tour guide for the boat people, I have noticed a strange phenomenon: every time a boat comes in, the sky clears and the sun shines.

The boat people are always stunned because the last port they called into, usually Bunbury, they couldn’t get off because of bad weather.

I always say: Bunbury? You missed nothing.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 27/3/2012

Three weeks ago I was in Singapore’s Little India on a Sunday night, searching for my friend’s favourite Indian restaurant.

The streets were packed, tight as a drum, thousands of men walking in all directions. Occasionally a woman would walk by but no man stopped to leer, pass a comment, or reach out to touch.

And the women strode through with confidence and complete lack of fear or trepidation.

I kept saying to Andre: “All these men, and no agro. How come?”

Andre has lived for five years on the island state and he knows his way around: “There is something in the culture of these people, something gentle,” he said. “And, look around, no alcohol.”

He was right. The men were walking, sitting on the pavement in clusters, or standing and chatting with friends. I saw lots of water bottles, but no alcohol.

The other startling aspect of the massed multitude was that although thousands seemed doomed to clash in their forward movement, it was a rare event. One man did bump into Andre and he turned immediately to apologise.

How many times have you walked up York Street fully confident you will not meat another human most of the way and when you do, you are surprised, as is the other human, and as you face each other neither can work out which side of the pavement to occupy?

What follows is that awkward one-step this way, one-step that way, only to discover the other party is mirroring your every movement.

If you’re lucky you get to share a laugh. If not, embarrassment.

Back in the car, Andre said: “In Singapore my wife can walk home any time of the night from the train and I know she will be safe. I don’t feel like that in Perth.”

I assured him that if Albany had a train, he could feel safe here to. But the look he gave me suggested he wasn’t so sure.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 13/3/2012

I am writing this in Singapore. I have not been here since 1973. It has changed.

The first thing I noticed on landing was that the plane took almost 20 minutes to taxi to the terminal tentacle and out my window, below the runway, I could see highways full of domestic traffic.

On terra firma I expected to be buffeted by multitudes but was pleasantly surprised to discover there was space for me, my baggage and a lot of other folk.

My hotel room is just right and the breakfast on offer is an interesting mix of European and Asian. I have settled on a fried rice base, with yellow dhal and alfalfa shoots, followed by fruit.

On my first morning I was joined by Sir Michael Somare, the ex-PM of Papua New Guinea. We talked about the current situation in Port Moresby and how hard it was for old men to give up power, read a book, go fishing, or learn backgammon.

All right, Sir Michael didn’t join me but he did sit three tables away and I would have spoken to him but he had eight men and one woman guarding him, following him and carrying his crockery.

I wanted to say: “Mate, if you can’t carry your own plate, you’re not going to manage a country?”

The big news in town this week seems to be that foreign maids will henceforth get one day of a week, or pay in lieu. One maid was proudly photographed with her bosses and revealed that not only did she already have her day off but she also borrowed the family car and went on holidays with the entire mob. Sacre bleur!

Highlights so far include the bright eyed children I have visited in schools, one of the finest laksas I have eaten and an island tour by Singaporean poet and Albany regular, Alvin Pang.

I have a feeling I will return.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 28/2/2012

Two weeks ago I started working as a volunteer to welcome the boat people. My little blue-shirted group stood in the street and welcomed passengers as they alighted from their buses.

Our fearless leader Jenny Howard kept us well informed in the lead up and made contact during the morning to alert us to sudden changes.

The volunteer operation was started over five years ago by Jenny and her friend Pat Kerrish after they found themselves inadvertently helping dazed and fazed tourists wandering around wondering what to do now they were onshore in the prettiest little own they had ever seen.

In those days there were 16 vollies on the books and now there are nearly 50.

The first boat to birth for my inaugural tour of duty was the Celebrity Century and we were told it had 2150 people on board. According to the Celebrity Cruises website the ship carries 1814, which may have accounted for the passengers streaming offshore in rapid numbers.

Although none, when greeted by us on the pavement, screamed: “Thank goodness we’re off the sardine can.”

The planet seemed well represented and among those we offered to assist were folk from the United States, Canada, France, England, New Zealand, Germany, the Philippines and Perth. All right, Perth is just up the road but they seemed just as foreign as the others.

The next boat was the Silver Shadow, once again we were told there were 400 on-board but the website suggested 382 would be a full-house.

I am beginning to think the shipping companies are a bit slack in their webpage maintenance because the Silver Shadow gang were clearly used to an abundance of personal space and each bus from the port only carried five or six of them.

Much fun was had by all and in between buses we told each other scandalous tales and attempted to influence the behaviour of land-based tourists.

Would I do it all again?  Oh yes, just try and keep me off the streets when the next boat comes in.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 14/2/2012

Five nappies, that’s the count so far this year. Disgusting.

It is not uncommon, for example, to find plastic bottles, lolly wrappers, thongs, bathers, socks and underpants left by lazy beach goers, then there’s the bits of rope, timber and plastic blown in from offshore, but nappies? Who? Why? Well, settle back, I have a list of possibles.

The first type to leave a nappy I call the “the lazy bugger”. This is a person who trundles off to the beach heavily laden with all kinds of junk to enhance their sea-side experience and when it’s time to leave they just up and leave with whatever they have in their hands.

Then there is the “hard of sight” type who has good intensions but when they rise to leave they can only see what they can see and that they collect. Nappies being flesh coloured can easily get lost in sand. Okay, I’m being kind here, because if this were so then how the hell does an old bloke with one dodgy eye spot them?

To be fair, I must include what I call the “good and fair” beach-goer who simply misses the filthy thing sitting on the sand and would, if their memory served them well, return later to the same spot to collect the offending parcel. This may well have happened and if it did, I would, of course, not see the bundle because it would no longer be there.

Finally, the type I call, simply, the "prick".  This person says to him or herself: I’m not picking up that. Leave it for the council workers. Yeah, sure, as if council workers patrol the beach every day collecting rubbish.

No, we do, the regulars, the walkers, the beach lovers.

Perhaps the "prick" has heard of us and says: Leave it, there’s an old bloke with a dodgy eye, comes by every day picking up crap.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 31/1/2012

It’s the tourist season and every year visiting friends ask me the same question: When we come, why does Albany close?

It doesn’t, of course, there’s always a place to buy petrol and at least one IGA keeps it’s doors open. What they mean is: Why is it so hard to find a place ready with a cup of coffee, a piece of cake and a decent meal?

On the Sunday following New Year, I found two coffee shops open and staff at both were running on empty and complaining about all the others with their doors slammed. Not a good look in a tourist town.

What the hell would I know about the service industry? Let me lay my cred on the line: all my brothers are in retail, I was once in retail, my father was a retailer, his mother and her father, all retailers.

The man of our house, Stanley Roy Doust, ran his shop in a time of heavily regulated shopping hours but he ran it with community responsibility firm in mind and if your mower broke down on Sunday at 2.20 pm, he would say: I’ll see you down the shop in 10 minutes. You can pay me tomorrow.

In a tourist town we need to nurture strong local operators like Stanley.

Some years after the proliferation of shopping centres, he said to me: Shopping centres have become the new cathedrals.

He’s right. Colin Barnett knows it. And so does Mark McGowan. People flock to the glitz seeking manna and so much leisure revolves around shopping experiences.

But even bishops should be given time off and so Stanley and I say: Close the cathedrals at least one day a week, but make sure the tourists leave town with a warm glow, because there is no greater marketing strategy than the one that works from mouth to mouth.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 17/1/2012

This column has been written standing up, on my feet, keyboard on a lectern, screen elongated to its full extremity on a desk.

Why? Pain. Oh, I can hear the sympathy cries. Please, let me speak.

The thing is, like a lot of men, I am not good with pain. What do I do, scream, lie still for hours, call for a glass of water, whimper for a sandwich as soon as the working woman arrives home from her daily  grind?

No, that’s not me. My history with pain has not been a sensible one. Like many country blokes of this and previous generations, I have tended to ignore, push through and do battle with those bits that hurt me.

So, when I woke up this morning with a knife in my left side, I did what any country bloke worth his pepper would do, I grabbed the handle and stuck it in further. In other words, I headed for the garden, took a spade, called it by its name, and went for it.

Of course, as soon as I stopped for breakfast, the pain returned full of vengeance, vitriol and a fierce determination to stop me in my track and make sure I couldn’t find another one to walk on.

All this reminded me of the time I damaged my knees while distributing a small booklet I had written called “How to lose an election”. Instead of stopping for the day I decided to complete the job while hobbling and running at the same time.

Eventually I collapsed and every so often the knees remind me of my idiocy by giving way beneath me.

Finally, to close, a few words of advice for blokes just like me from that great Australian philosopher Oliver Newton John, who once, when in pain, sang: Listen to your body talk.

And it would have helped if she had added: Then go and see your health care professional.

The Doust Files - Albany Advertiser 3/1/2012

As always at this time of the year I offer up tips for tourists and locals alike. I begin with those for our very welcome visitors.

1 – Do not drive down York Street. This year’s Christmas Pageant was moved to the Middleton Beach precinct and half the floats did not arrive. It is believed they are trapped in a roundabout time-warp and every so often other vehicles are sucked into the void and old timers tell us none of them will ever be seen again.

2 – Before you head off to Middleton Beach it is best to eat and drink before leaving your accommodation.

3 – Remember, this is not a mining town, our City Council is a victim of itself and the GFC and our local MLA is not in the ruling party and spends most of his salary on Collingwood Football Club paraphernalia, so we need cash. If you fail to spend all your holiday money there is a collection tin at my place.

Here are my tips for the locals, those long suffering folk who put up with weather worse than Melbourne to ensure visitors have the infrastructure with which to enjoy time off from some place up north we have forgotten the name of.

1 – If a tourist says they think our weather is glorious tell them it won’t last, that the week before they arrived all hell broke loose and even worse weather is expected after they leave.

2 – Do not invite them into your home, once they realise we live here without air-conditioning they will want to come back.

3 – When meeting visitors on the street, twist your face and scream names of vegetables as though in the grip of Tourette’s disorder.

If you require any further advice don’t call me because I am on my annual holidays in Dalwallinu.