It’s the truth – I saw it with my own eyes. It happened on an intersection at Kunda Park.

You probably won’t believe me. It’s a rare thing to see – even more unlikely than Natoli and Hulett holding hands on the front page of the Sunshine Coast Daily.

Yes, I saw a lycra-clad, helmeted cyclist who was so professional he had shoes that clipped into his pedals, actually … are you ready for it … here it comes … STOP AT A RED LIGHT.

I know what you are thinking: I haven’t seen that in years; most cyclists ride straight through as though the lights apply to everyone else but them.

I wound down my passenger window. He looked at me, I looked at him.

I put both thumbs in the air and said, while shaking them up and down: “Good on ya, mate!”

Bob Abbot for premier!

Speaking of Joe Natoli and Tom Hulett shaking hands on the front page, perhaps Bob Abbot is right.

These guys have done nothing but argue, bicker, backstab, snarl and fight – they are about as compatible as Pauline Hanson and Mandawuy Yunupingu.

So how the hell are they going to run a super-council?

Why don’t we just put Bob Abbot in charge of Queensland and be done with it?

We’ve got Peter Beattie carrying on like a despot in some small European country.

We’ve got two people who hate each other smiling and shaking hands (as if we believe that) for the common good of the Sunshine Coast … next you’ll be telling me that three cabinet ministers have been charged in the last year with blackmail and fraud.

Getting fit can kill you

Okay, so I have already applauded the cyclist who stopped at the red light; now let me tell you about the jogger I spotted.

What a complete moron! He was jogging on the David Low Way, heading south with his back to the traffic on the white line on the side of the road, when within walking distance and on the other side of the road is a jogging track.

What is it with these guys. Surely you can’t want to get so fit that you will end up getting run over doing it? Isn’t that why they call it a jogging track … because you actually jog on there.

And they call it a road ’cause its meant for cars.

I suppose I should be more forgiving – he did look over 50.

My scooter story

I have so been enjoying riding my scooter to work at 3.30 in the morning.

Although I will say a couple of mornings last week it was horrendously cold! I kind of knew it was because as I passed Maroochy Airport – possibly the coldest place on earth at that time of the morning – I yawned.

The inside of my helmet immediately fogged up, and when you are riding a scooter you can’t really take one hand off and wipe the inside of your face mask, so I decided to lean my head back and let the air come in through the bottom of the helmet and demist it, just so I could see the hell where I was going.

It worked. The next thing, as I approached Bi Lo at Pacific Paradise, I caught a wiff of freshly baked bread drifting along the David Low Way from the Swiss Bakery. I couldn’t help myself, I turned into Homer Simpson … mmmmmm … bread, I thought.

But my ride wasn’t finished there.

I went up and over the Maroochy bridge and down the other side, still heading south, when I hit that swampy part of stagnant water on either side of the motorway where the kids usually turn to me and say on the way home from school: “Did you fart?”

Oh, scootering … it’s such an rewarding experience.

Was that Ryan or Bryan?

Eighteen-year-old Joshua said to me: “Dad, can I use your credit card to get some Ryan Adams tickets?”

“Sure son,” I said, not wanting to missing an opportunity to bond.

He came back in half an hour and said: “There is a problem. The card holder has to pick up the tickets in Brisbane.”

“No problem mate,” I gushed, wanting to be the coolest father in the world.

“You do know who Ryan Adams is, don’t you Dad?”

“Of course I do – short Canadian rock singer, did a duet with Sporty Spice!”

Joshua sighed: “No, that’s Bryan Adams.”

Well, at least he didn’t call me Pop!

I did go to Brisbane and pick up the tickets from Ticketek and while I was in there, I got a ticket for myself from the Brisbane City Council. Note to self – next time just say no!