Here at The Tribune we save money where we can; hence, the printed version comes to you courtesy of a $6000 printer we picked up (and almost dropped off the back of a rental truck) for $150. Hence, we keep buying scanners (that don’t work) for $2, again from our friends at Ebay. And hence, every month when Brad The Genius Cartoonist bangs his tin mug against the bars of his cage and we wander down to the dungeon to collect his latest piece for the Front Cover, we have to go out and get the cartoon scanned, usually at Office Works.

Assorted Idiocy from court and the street, showing you just how hard our justice system works to protect us from the deeply stupid.

The idea for the idiot issue was, in part, inspired by this story. It is a true story, with almost no poetic licence in the retelling (well, not much anyway).

Most of my friends did the usual flee the country thing in their early 20s. Some were scattered around the world in various exotic locations, but the rest of us joined the Aussie horde in Earls Court, and staunchly did our bit to confirm the long suffering Londoners view of Australians as a bunch of loud, uncouth, but difficult to offend drunkards.

This should actually be Village Idiots, rather than the singular form, as I’m going to make reference to a group of people who have proven themselves to be no more than a collective of Village Idiots.

As I’ve mentioned in the past I currently work in hospitality, and it does mean at times I have to take deep breaths and suck it up when confronted by an acutely moronic customer. I wish I could say that these times are rare.

Thinking about village idiots it's difficult to resist the urge to trample the memory of George W. Bush.

History is replete with examples of towns, cities, nations and even the odd empire that have had their collective destiny held in the hands of an imbecile.

It will no doubt become apparent with every one of these that I write, that I am what Shannon’s Insurance Company refers to as a motoring enthusiast.

My car is not just a means of transportation, I actually enjoy driving it; there are few other things that will captivate me like driving does. Even in peak hour traffic, I can sit back and admire the gentle thumping noise my V8 makes as it idles away merrily. I find the idea of driving along an unknown road full of twists and bends, slight rises and dips and corners that are both off and on cambered, intoxicating. It is challenging and exciting and can leave you breathless at the end.

Can a sane, normal and slightly self-righteous man (well only when I have an opinion or my mouth is open) pass judgment on whether one is a Village Idiot or not?

I would argue an emphatic “yes”, if he has known one or two, or has been one himself once or twice.

I fit both these criteria.

I was fascinated to read recently a Westinghouse survey reporting that, despite Australia’s penchant for watching other people cook all those tricky things on the television, meat-and-three-veg is what most families continue to eat every night of the week. The ho-hum grilled, roasted and barbequed meats, the reliable filler, potato, and a predictable selection of mundane vegetables seem to be what most of us rely upon for sustenance.

Though it has most definitely not felt like Spring lately, my editor Jane asked if I could write an article on the sparkly stuff which I hope will slam Winter up side the head and let the right weather through the door.

An apology: If you were driving around Elwood/St Kilda about 5.30pm on Grand Final day, and a dude in a long black leather jacket and Saints scarf was standing in the middle of the road with tears in his eyes begging you to run him over, I’m sorry. That was me. Full of beer and pain and heartache, images of Lenny and Roo and BJ swirling through my head, a lost, tortured soul, replaying the missed kicks and spoiled spoils, feeling the agony of the What If’s, and I wasn’t even at the ground, let alone on it, and that just made me feel worse.