Queensland Wine - On Your Doorstep.

PERCHED above Brisbane, with views to the Sunshine Coast, sits one of Queensland's unexpected gems.

Oceanview Estate Winery has the day-tripping market from Brisbane at its doorstep, so it's only a matter of time before it is swamped by locals discovering the wine and the views.

Thomas Honnef in the OVE barrel room.

It's set on an old dairy farm outside of Mt Mee, 500 metres above sea level, making a cooler terroir for the vines.

Sea breezes make their way to OVE from their long ocean views, breezes that drop some much-needed moisture on the vines of owners Thomas and Kate Honnef.

Still, moisture in Queensland means mould, and in vineyards it can mean bortrytis.

Thomas Honnef's solution is to grow thicker skinned grapes, viognier and ruby cabernet, grapes that also produce intriguing wines well suited to Australian summers.

In the name of dedicated research, I’ve tried their 2012 Viognier, the 2012 Summer Ruby, and the Sparkling Reflections.

Drink This
The 2012 Viognier is an aromatic and crisp wine that calls out summertime drinking. Leaves were stripped off the vines to allow the UV light through to the green grape berries.

That toughens up the skin, providing resistance to bortrytis and some necessary armour for survival in Queensland.

And that also changes the wine.  Oceanview Estate grapes make aromatic, fruit driven wine, with a white peach tone to it.  The wine is crisp, with a good balance of acidity that allows the fruit character to sit up and tickle your tongue.

If you're looking for a white wine for imbibing with friends this summer, on a veranda or with a light meal, try it out.

And Drink This
The Ruby Cabernet, called the Summer Ruby, had the skins taken out of the mix early in the crushing process, so there is less tannin.  There is no barrel life for the wine either, which means it retains a fruit character instead of an oaky one.

The result?  A win that’s lighter on the mouth that a hit of helium from a balloon.
"You can make an awesome shiraz in McLarenVale, but I'm not going to make shiraz like that,” said Thomas Honnef.

“But to make something like [Summer Ruby], that the public really love ..."
The result is a distinctly Australian wine that matches any meaty offering that graces your barbeque.

These are good value wines from a place that gives you a great winery experience.  If you have a free afternoon in BrisVegas, make your way up the mountain and enjoy the scenery and the wine.

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The New Politics of Vilification

SHOCKED OR drop-jawed to hear what Alan Jones said about Julia Gillard?  If yes, then good for you.

Some of us were not shocked.  We heard it with a sag of the shoulders or a dropping feeling in our stomach, but no sense of surprise.

That kind of vilification has been going around our country for a while now, and Jones IS reflecting a segment of public sentiment.  That does not excuse his culpability in being one of the players driving it.

But you actually may be shocked at the depth of the vilification.  Have a read about some of the things that Anne Summers has discovered on what has been said about Julia Gillard.

I won’t replay some of these crude politico-sexual brayings that have been circulating since Julia Gillard became Prime Minister – they would curdle milk.

In fact, Anne Summers had to publish an R-rated version and a “vanilla” version of her 2012 Human Rights and Social Justice Lecture at the University of Newcastle.

Photo annesummers.com.au

So what’s new?  Such rumours and vilification were once whispered.  Now they are being blared and blurted across a number of public platforms.

Where denigration was once subtle, people are now frantically competing to air their abuse about our female Prime Minister.

Spreading vilification and rumour has always been a nasty sub stream in politics.  Quietly ask a politician about what has been said about them, and you see their faces cloud over.

Someone from Deception Bay once told me they heard three different rumours about me.  One, that my residency in my community of Deception Bay was a front, and I really lived elsewhere with my girlfriend.

Two, that I was gay.  A clear conflict with the first rumour, but logic and careful reflection are not important here.

Three, that I was in Deception Bay on a Work For The Dole Scheme, which was my personal favourite.

Rumours and vilification of political figures do not spread by accident, but through political design.  This is one of politics’ dark arts.

When Lyndon Johnson ran for the US Senate against venerated former Texas Governor Coke Stevenson, his campaign paid for “missionaries” or “walking delegates” to simply walk around and spread rumours about Johnson’s opponent.

For $50 a day, the paid trusted local would drop into bars or go to the local courthouse.  He would buy beers, chat to people one-one-one, dropping into conversation what someone in Austin told him about Stevenson.  And the whispering campaign worked.

For women politicians, there has always been political vituperation based on sexual innuendo.

The venerated Mary Queen of Scots didn’t escape it.  At one stage, a placard portraying her as a mermaid, which was a symbol for a prostitute, was publicly posted in Edinburgh.

What is new in the Gillard era is that modern technology gives everyone a printing press and a mass audience.  And no time for mature reflection before a germ of an idea is published.

Also new is that we can see who is purveying some of this raw visceral abuse.  There seems to be a lot coming from older males.

For ageing men, there may be something disturbing or confronting when a younger, attractive and unmarried (read: available) woman suddenly becomes their leader.

The success of such a woman who would traditionally be under them (erm, in a career sense) would especially be galling in a time when they have lost their own professional power and prestige.

Whew.  A Freudian analysis of the political vilification of Julia Gillard is begging to be done.

But it would be best if the first patient on the couch is not Alan Jones.

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I Lunched with the Red Hat Ladies (and Survived)

“MEET ME with my friends at Gallopers Sports Club,” instructed my mother.

“Your friends?  Who are they?”

“They are ... the Red Hat Ladies,” she said with a dramatic pause.

Gulp.  That is an intimidating social occasion for any male, or anyone under 50.  Lunch with feisty older ladies bedecked in red hats and purple dresses, determined to be noticed and heard.

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple

with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.

Who are the Red Hat ladies?  Pay heed and respect if you see them out and about.  They are not a mad gaggle of nannas, but a local offshoot of the biggest women’s social network in the world.

The Red Hat Society started out in the USA in 1998, when founder Sue Ellen Cooper discovered a red hat in a thrift shop and decided to spread the good cheer.

She found the poem “Warning” by Jenny Joseph, and that was a catalyst to add the purple and get active.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired

and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

and run my stick along the public railings

and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

and pick the flowers in other people's gardens

and learn to spit.

Now there are 40,000 Red Hat chapters around the world, stacked with intelligent, curious and outspoken women.  A woman becomes a Red Hatter when she decides she is not going to be invisible, and is going to have a voluble good time.  

The first Red Hatter I discovered was my friend Jan Macintyre, a former equal opportunity officer, and a woman of courage with a wicked sense of humour.  I was not surprised to find my chatty and MENSA-minded mother was also a member.

 Can't see my Mum. Photo Nicholas Falconer Sunshine Coast Daily.

I made sure I dressed neatly and polished my shoes.  I walked in to Gallopers with my near-two-year-old son and conversation paused.  Many sets of piercing eyes snapped onto me.

I could nearly hear them thinking “Who is this male?  Not another one about to dump a squawking grandchild on us!”

But once they saw I was prepared to engage in serious and insightful conversation, they peppered me with sharp questions.

They had years of work experience in the public and private sectors, and are not afraid to issue prickly barbs about politics.

The manager came over and with a big smile, said hello and asked … how was the meal?

The smile became somewhat fixed as the Red Hatters, naturally, freely gave him their opinion on how to improve the meal and service.

The laughter and the hearty giggles resumed.  I quietly sat on the edge of the group and the conversations as I fretted about Guy, who daintily smeared his hands over the glass wall panels.

“Just let him roam free,” one said, waving her cake fork and smiling.  “Can’t get into too much trouble here.  Carpet on the floor and he can’t get out.”

Common sense and words of wisdom.  If you see a group of ladies out in red hats, have a chat and have a listen.  Carefully.

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Baby Boomers and their Cars

THE GREY haired gent got close and whispered to me, worried.  “Read your blog.  We aren’t going to run out of oil,” he stated flatly.

“Are we?” he pleaded.

Of all the generations, the Baby Boomers are the most fearful, the most likely to deny that we will someday run out of oil.  The thought of no petrol, and not being able to drive, seems to fill them with dread.

Their entire lives, over 60 years, have been fuelled by petrol, with family cars as a constant presence.  They are the first generation who grew up with the assumption they would have a car.  Always.

The Cheverlot looks anthropomorphic - must be a family member

Their intense relationship with their cars is more than a relationship.  Cars give us our sense of self.  That includes a sense of belonging, self-esteem, and status.

In the field of self-esteem, driving skill has become an essential part of our ego.  So many of us think we are great drivers, and we need to believe that.

Many older men fear being told they have to give up driving, ending probably the longest relationship of their lives.

My own father only stopped driving weeks before he died.  He could not even walk to his mail box, due to the emphysema, heart disease, osteoporosis, and the effects of his stroke, but he kept nipping down to the shops.

The dent in the rear of the car, he breezily confessed, was from when he backed into someone at the shops.

From a time when everything was better.  Apparently.

Harder to extract from him was the admittance that he managed to crash into his neighbours’ car.  He reversed out of his garage, across the street and hit the car parked in their driveway.

When he was negotiating his (second) divorce settlement, I insisted he throw in his car to the package, hoping he would now finally cease driving.  He agreed, but as soon as the settlement was paid, he equally insisted on getting a new car.

I sat next to him the first time he drove it, and he wasn’t behind the wheel 60 seconds before he slammed into a speed bump he did not see.  “You can have a drive now,” he said shakily as he quickly pulled over.

My father was deeply convinced of his driving ability, and only death separated him from his car.  Of all his fears when visiting the doctor, his greatest was the doctor telling him he could not drive anymore.

The prospect of “no car” means more than the end of a deep relationship for the ageing Baby Boomers.  It may mean a loss of part of themselves.

The Whitings were a Ford family.  Sorry.

For all generations, cars establish an identity.  While many Australians will scratch their heads when asked what religion they are, many will unhesitatingly place themselves in one of two groups - Holden or Ford.

People become members of a tribe according to car preference.  They identify themselves as tribal men through Holden or Ford clothing.  On the walls of their homes, you can see the posters and artwork blaring Holden or Ford.

For some, this relationship moves beyond a car giving sense of self.  The car gives them an identity.

The grey haired gent wanted to be assured I wasn’t going to take away his petrol and render his car into a dust-gathering ornament.  Like my Dad, that would diminish his manhood.

Fear not, Baby Boomers.  We won’t run out of petrol yet.  There will be just enough to last out your lives.

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