[This is an early and first draft. I’m dropping it in here in case Zuckerberg decides in his infinite wisdom to 8636 as in kill my post. It has happened before.]

Friends have been a bit thin on the ground and hard to come by since I returned to my ancestral home country of Ngunnawal/Ngambri in the Australian Capital Territory.

(That’s in Australia. Head south from Nouvelle Caledonie, go past Norfolk Island, and hang a right. If you hit Queenstown in Aotearoa you’ve really overshot the mark. Best to ask a right whale, or a left porpoise, for directions when you going through the Coral Sea.)

I’m not mob, not privileged to call myself a traditional custodian. I acknowledge elders past, present, future, and emerging, but I am not authorised to welcome anyone to country. And if you’re the type who whinges, whines, moans, gripes, and belly-aches, “Awww, geez I’m fargin’ sicka bean well cummed to me own cuntree!” then Barry, Persephone, Gwenevieve, and Nigel – I invite you to go and do your own research, because my god, you lot do like to bang on about how you do your own research (mostly while you’re camped on the porcelain, dropping a Hanson and Murdoch off at the pool).

But go do some research on what Welcome To Country in the current era means. I’ll leave that one there. Cf. next post on Overheard Productions for a possible starting point. Invitation only. You’re allegedly an adult. Feel free to slosh about in the shallow end of ignorance and blind stupidity if you prefer.

No, I’m a gubba and a boat person. The Quinns sailed into Terra Australis in 1840. Australia wasn’t officially a thing until 1901, and we whiteys who allegedly “grew here” were British subjects until somewhere around 1948. Which is partly why I find white power racists and Hanson/RWFW LNP flag-wavers feckin’ hilarious – and I can, will, and do laugh in their faces.)

Anyway, I’m tossing around ideas to haul in the anchor and set sail again in the next not too distant. Much like 2024 when I was allegedly resident on Kaurna country in Tarntanya on the Adelaide plains, home of the red kangaroo dreaming, well to quote a song I recently sung with the lovely, adorable, joyful Mixtape Chorus by the band Cake (band):

You’re never, ever, ever, ever there.

Which in some sort of coincidental or ironic twist (I’ll work out which, throw your two cents if you wanna) is why I started losing friends hand over first when I was resident here from 1966 to 2013, with time off for good behaviour in 1978-79 (being Billy Bunter in Herefordshire, England), bad behaviour in 1998 (pretending I could possibly physically live in Sydney and commute to a global IT company consultant job with a wife and two kids – #SpoilerAlert: I failed at both), and various sorties to SE Asia, Europe, the Middle East, USA, PNG and such along the way.

Q: Where’s Bill? Isn’t he coming to the thing?

A: Ferk Nose! Woodford or Gundagai or Slacky Flat or Kikatinalong or Flemington Rd, Mitchell (EPIC) or Whoop Whoop… Hoo No’s? We’ve stopped inviting him!

See? Master of my own disaster. Nobody’s fault but mine. Whack that last sentence plus: RAPT into your YouTube search bar. That’s one of my theme songs.

Wrap it up, Fireball; we’re burning daylight.

Yeah, back to where it all began for, in some respects eight months, in others 16 months. I’m surprised and saddened I’ve failed to connect or reconnect with so many, but as always, I look in the mirror to sort out why. I’m a communications specialist and practitioner.

But as I told Namba Wan Sun and second heir to the WFJ Quinn family hundreds (plus a tatty music collection and about 60 t-shirts):

Some master plumbers have leaky taps. Brilliant mechanics have shitbox cars. And physical security specialists are having their gaffes knocked over while they’re down the pub with their mates because a) they talk to loud, and b) they like routines and predictability.

(Predictability and having a routine is the natural enemy of not having your mansion ransacked. Don’t take my word for it; it’s pretty well-documented.)

So much for another short post.

I’m scoping out the next move. And unlike last July when I said, fuck it, Awabakal country looks ok and lobbed into Newy for a week to scout properties and decided four days later, yeah nah! (I saw out the week. Stayed in the wrong part. Decided to trust my gut at the time. Serving suggestion: if you’re a real estate agent, best not to a) tell the eager young renter who’s just walked in to piss off and search the online app, and b) in your printed material, spell ‘accommodation’ with one ‘c’.

I am not making that up. Not a deal breaker, but the last of a fistful of straws in just four days minus a few hours.

This time, baby, I’ll be bullet-proof. Big-ups to two amazing young serving types down at Canberra Southern Cross Club in Jamo who sang that song with me, glory, Sunday before last as I was having a nightcap after dinner after a restorative and unexpected near collapse and some quality time with St John Ambulance ACT and ACT Government Health and Community Services at North Canberra Hospital.

So much to say about the health people. I just need to find a big chunk of time to craft the sincere, grateful, loving words of appreciation for every single individual involved in that episode from 12.30pm to 17:35h Sunday 24 June (5hr05m total) from the bistro of Mercure Canberra to ambulance to triage to short stay A&E/ED to tap-dancing out the front doors. (Not making that up; I may request the CCTV of my doing that, and of the sashay away/do my little dance on the catwalk I did to prove I could walk again while my bloodwork was coming back from the lab.

Sounds like a weird-arse script on the cutting room floor of a TV production house. Nuh. That happened.

AND as mentioned in dispatches previously, E. the ambulance driver joined me in a duet of Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd, and poor old R. the senior paramedic and at that stage my primary caregiver wondered what fever dream she was witnessing but soon was cheering on her colleague who is welcome any time down at Gorman House Arts Centre on a Thursday evening 7.30-9pm for pop songs and cake.

Yes, we had cake after Cake. It’s an assortment every week. I usually bring Anzac biscuits, Macadamia biscuits, Dutch or Mexican Almond chip cookies/keuken. Bring your own mug if you wanna cuppa before we do a full run of the song. Last week it was Teardrop by Massive Attack.

Dunno what’s on the menu for this Thursday. Whatever the lovely Isabelle and Dan plus musical guests whip up under the direction of Alice and the song selection cadre, it’s always (wow, I am using one of my swear words!) it’s always been fab in my eight-ish months of mucking in with the BOMs (mix of basses and tenors, and yes, we have one or three of the singeresses join us if that’s in their range).

Click on the link, don’t let fear hold you back, all are welcome. Web page sets it all out beautifully – drop them an email with any specific questions.

Now. What did I come in here for? It’s nine fifteen ay ehm on Monday 1 June 2026 – hallo winter! Sixteen degrees outside, up to a top of twenty one around two pee ehm, winds west to south west at five kilometres an hour, humidity six tee puh scentt, barrow metric pressure is one thou’s end and six ten hector pascals and falling so it’s looking pretty settled for a while. Great day for hanging out the washing and going for a nice walk. Very low pollen count here on Turrbal Country so hay fever sufferers, fear not and breathe easy.

I’ve got one more song for you before I get out of the studio and make way for Gwenevieve Wheelbarrow to come in and take you through to midday with her Klezmer Hits Of The Balkans, Ukraine, and Sunshine Coast – I can see her now itching to get into the chair and spin in some mad arse hammered dulcimer from Latvia, Donesk Region, and Mooloolaba.

This song is a dedication to one of my old muckers from business groups and now friendship. She’s one of about three friends who has been there in 3D as we catch up for a feed, a coffee, and chats about life, the universe, and everything. Lee Corrigan, thanks for sharing with me your musical preferences. Here’s a return serve with one of mine. From the amazing live video concert collection: Mylo Xyloto – Cold Play Live 2012, this is Will Champion’s song featuring Chris, Guy, and Jonny.

Lee, old mate: it’s us against the world.

I’ll catch you next time on Overheard Radio 99.36. Bill Quinn signing off and I’ll see you when I’m looking at you.

Bye for now.

DISCLAIMER: Yes, much like many things in my life, this post needs a bloody good edit. I’ll fix it in post. I’m late for breakfast.*