Hipsters v bogans in GP battle

NOBODY likes to be the bearer of bad news, except perhaps the media.

Even then, many in the media are acutely aware that delivering the bad news can be self- fulfilling and sometimes make difficult problems worse.

But you need disclosure to understand what got you into the position in which you find yourself.

In Townsville, the city is at the epicentre of a long and painful recession.

This month commentators in the national press highlighted that all is not well in regional Australia despite politicians singing the benefits of growth and lower unemployment.

Australia’s regional recession, commentators said, hit ground zero in the labour force region of Townsville where the city topped the “misery index” in unemployment rates, employment growth and participation rates.

How a city like Townsville, blessed as northern Australia’s largest city with strong links into Asian markets and the support of recession- proof sectors such as defence, education, health and administration, got into this mess is a good question.

Don’t forget, too, that sugar and beef prices are at or near record highs.

Yes, there has been a mining downturn and the nickel refinery has shut. But that is not the whole story.

We have lost 22,000 jobs — one in five — from the Townsville economy in eight years.

Behind the veil, people are trapped in negative equity, owing more than their homes than they are worth.

Politicians seem only to have just noticed and appear incapable of doing anything about it.

One business contact tells me our problems are record council rates, electricity, insurance and government charges. Businesses are broke and consumers have no money to spend. I think there’s more to it than that. Our manufacturing sector is being demolished by Chinese imports and the Japanese are paying less for our gas than we are at home.

There has been market failure and regulatory incompetence. YESTERDAY morning I nearly collided with a hipster. There he was, riding a fixie without a helmet or light down the middle of Victoria Parade, Melbourne at 6am, man bun flapping in the wind, yoga mat strapped to his back.

Decorative but dumb; that’s hipsters for you.

There’s no doubt this great town of ours is being overrun by locavore hipsters who ride their post- ironic artisanal skateboards to work and spend their lunchtimes turning their beard trimmings into pot plant holders.

Everywhere you go these days you see them drinking beetroot lattes, feeding their dogs “pawleo” raw dog food and clogging up cafes eating deconstructed bone marrow apple turnovers served in mini supermarket trolleys.

At night the largely nocturnal hipsters haunt places like Ferdydurke where they willingly part with $ 20 for a “Big Mother” cheese toastie called “The Dirk”. Yes, they’re Dirkheads. Ferdydurke, which is based in Tattersalls Lane, can only be entered through a side door and up two flights of stairs. It’s named after a 1937 surrealist novel by the Polish writer Witold Gombrowicz. Of course it is. Even Thursday night’s AFL game between Richmond and Carlton showed the insidious infiltration of hipsterdom into the previously bogan domain of AFL football. There were man buns and manicured beards galore. Since when did AFL players have to remember to pack hair ties, head bands and beard oil in their kit bags?

What’s next? Will the food offerings at the ’ G include a beertasting paddle with pulled pork slider, fried chicken and olives you pick yourself from groves in South Yarra? Please, no. That is why I am delighted to see Melbourne finally fighting back and reasserting itself as the bogan capital of Australia this weekend.

Can you hear the throb of distant engines? The Grand Prix is back.

The race has long been a celebration of boganity involving fast cars, scantily- clad women and men trying to convince bouncers that hiviz is in fact smart casual attire.

The Grand Prix, after all, was synonymous with the original boganaire: the billion- dollar- man himself Bernie Ecclestone.

Melbourne bogans are disappointed the race is no longer sponsored by Fosters because they approve of alcohol sponsorship.

But they like the idea of the race being hosted by Rolex, given that they’ve got a genuine one bought in Bali for $ 25.

The hipster is no doubt mystified by the fuss made of the Grand Prix, which he thinks is just another noisy car race filled with drunk bogans wearing polyester shirts and pawing at the Grid Girls after drinking 25 beers and 17 Red Bulls. He may well be right. The Melbourne hipster sees footage of the race on TV — usually only by accident — and is amazed by the proliferation of men drinking from their shoes (“shoey”) and ripping off the muffler from their car to get it signed by a deadset legend like Daniel Ricciardo. After all, the hipster thinks Scuderia is a place to go trekking in the Himalayas.

He thinks The Verstappen Rule is something that measures the amount of organic coffee in a single- origin shot. And he thinks a Toro Rosso Autograph Session involves wine tasting in the Napa Valley.

Besides, he doesn’t approve of the objectification of the Grid Girls in their green shorts and tight white tops.

But there are some very worrying signs that the hipster is infiltrating this high fortress of boganity.

A quick glance at Grand Prix hospitality brochures will confirm the worst: there are “bespoke suites”, “allday grazing” and Paddock tickets where you can pay $ 4295 for the privilege of watching the race on TV.

Clearly, the bogan needs to do more to assert its rightful place at the top of the Victorian pecking order.

After all, this state is home to the creator of “Poida”, Dave O’Neil, the Bogan Bingo boys, those Foxy Morons Kath and Kim and Shane Warne.

We are also home to “Nanna Shazza”, who was crowned the state’s top bogan by the Bogan Hunters for her love of Holdens, Collingwood Football Club, drinking wine from a “goon” and exposing her breasts.

Throw in Sam Newman, a suburb named after a condom ( Franga) and Crown Casino and you can see the bogan is here to stay.

Now we just need those pesky hipsters to go away.