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Oh here we go, it’s that magical time of year again where the media goes,
“AUSTRALIA STOPS FOR THE SYDNEY TO HOBART.”
No we fucking don’t.
That’s not a national event. That’s a floating LinkedIn meetup for blokes named Andrew who own hedge funds and call their dad “Father.”
They act like every Aussie is glued to the TV going,
“Oi Shazza, cancel Christmas, the boat’s turning left!”
Mate, no one gives a shit.
We’re not inspired. We’re not emotionally invested.
We’re just wondering why a bunch of millionaires are role-playing as sailors instead of paying more tax.
It’s not a sport.
It’s competitive parking for rich people.
“Ohhh look at the craftsmanship, look at the sails.”
Yeah, fantastic, Dave.
It costs more than a public hospital wing and it’s named something like Liquid Asset or Tax Haven II.
And the commentators take it so seriously,
“An incredible contest of endurance.”
Endurance?
They’ve got chefs onboard, satellite phones, emergency beacons, and a bloke whose only job is to open wine.
That’s not endurance, that’s a luxury cruise with mild inconvenience.
You want endurance?
Try working retail on Boxing Day.
Try surviving Centrelink.
Try sitting through your uncle’s opinions at Christmas lunch.
That’s the real Australian Ironman.
And every year the media pretends it’s for “all Australians.”
Bullshit.
It’s for people who say things like,
“I don’t actually live anywhere, I’m more… global.”
The rest of us are like,
“Cool story, mate. I just want my power bill lower and my rent not to feel like a hostage negotiation.”
And the best part?
When one of these boats sinks, suddenly it’s a tragedy.
“Disaster at sea.”
No mate, it’s a very expensive lesson in hubris.
You strapped carbon fibre to arrogance and thought the ocean wouldn’t notice.
Australia doesn’t hate the race.
We’re just completely indifferent.
If it disappeared tomorrow, the only people upset would be Channel Seven and a bloke named Rupert who hasn’t touched salt water unless it was rimmed on a margarita.
So yeah, sail your boats, have fun, knock yourselves out.
Just stop pretending the rest of us are watching.
We’re not.
We’re at the pub.
Arguing about footy.
Complaining about rent.
And absolutely not giving a toss who wins your rich-guy floaty contest.
Cheers