Revolutionary: Dane Reynolds Quiksilvers
Vans by failing to invite them on fabulous trip!
By Chas Smith
@sealtooth will you please invite us next time?
Dane Reynolds is one of our icons, in case you
forgot, in case you thought he turned into a Coors Light guzzling
pre-ex-hipster who hates money and surfing in equal measure. I
don’t have any real insight here except to note that he recently
went on a fabulous surf trip to somewhere gorgeous. To here…
…tagging only “Pure Juice.”
No old sponsor Quiksilver. No new sponsor Vans. No Erik Logan
#blurrrrV2, #eloera, #surfingat48isfun, #vans, #etc
Nothing.
Did Vans, who pays our icon’s bills since we’re too busy being
snarky, notice?
Yes.
The brand quickly posted…
…”@sealtooth will you please invite us next time?”
Oh yes! He will invite you to declare bankruptcy then peel off
millions while starting his own brand.
And that’s why we still love Dane.
Don’t you?
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Ross: "John? John?" JJ: "I want it over and
done. I do. I'm tired, boss. Tired of bein' on the road, lonely as
a sparrow in the rain. Tired of not ever having me a buddy to be
with, or tell me where we's coming from or going to, or why. Mostly
I'm tired of people being ugly to each other. I'm tired of all the
pain I feel and hear in the world everyday. There's too much of it.
It's like pieces of glass in my head all the time. Can you
understand?"
Rumour: John John Florence is gonna pull
out of Snapper shortly before the waiting period opens!
By Derek Rielly
Ain't gonna chase a Bell either…
Ten months ago, shortly before the Margaret River Pro
kicked open its Bali reboot, the two-time
and defending world champ John John Florence
announced he’d been wounded in combat and would be taking a little
time off to heal.
His coach, Ross Williams, behaved in the manner of the loyal
sidekick, punching this supporting explanation into his cell
phone.
“I was holding my breath the minute he paddled out. I knew he
was feeling jumpy. At one point I looked at him from the beach and
gestured to take it easy! Haha. In my position it’s sketchy
watching him surf like that cause I want him to be ready for the
next comp, but you can’t tell someone like John to just surf
safe.”
Gesturing on the beach to “take it easy”? Oh if this was a movie
it would be too fantastic to believe.
Do you remember the theatre that ensued? Ross tapping on the
glass, John bravely disappearing into the machine.
Now, according to a source that is more reliable than most, John
John, who’ll turn twenty-seven
this October, is going to withdraw from the Quiksilver
Pro at Snapper shortly before the waiting period opens on April
3.
Which means, according to our source, “he’s not doing Bells
either. Probably will show up in Bali on the one-year anniversary
of his knee injury with a handy excuse as to why he’s not in the
World Title race, cause let’s face it, he looks like he’s not even
close to being able to compete with Italo, Filipe and Gabriel.
Probably not even Julian and Jordy
“He really is not back from that injury so it makes sense to
hold off until he can actually compete at the top-level again. But
who knows when that will be? Probably should’ve had surgery.
Watching his surfing on social media has been rough. He looks about
seventy percent. I wouldn’t do Snapper either.”
A harsh assessment, no?
Also, Adriano de Souza, your 2015 king of the hill, is also
gonna pull out.
Not sure why.
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War in England: Golfers fear their land
will be seized by maniacal wave tank prospectors!
By Chas Smith
Clubs and leashes being used as weapons on the high
street!
Did you ever envision, in your most wild
imagination, like after a heavy night of massive drug use where
your mind is spinning all sorts of ludicrousness, that surfing
would be one of the world’s most popular activities on earth,
threatening richly cultured pastimes like golf in jolly old
England?
Well, it’s true, though it’s difficult for me to comprehend as
well so let us turn to the Telegraph for more. It
always tells the truth. It won’t let us down.
Putting greens and fairways from London to Edinburgh are
being sized-up for conversion to inland surfing parks by a new
breed of non-Pringle wearing entrepreneur.
Advances in computing have – after decades of trying –
finally made it possible to create an endless supply of perfect
surf waves in inland lakes and dozens are now being planned and
built across the world.
The world’s first commercial surf lake was opened by Andy
Ainscough, son of the crane hire tycoon Martin Ainscough, in
Snowdonia in 2015 and similar facilities are now planned for
Bristol, Edinburgh and London over the next few years.
The Wave London wave will be built on the site of a
municipal 18 hole golf course in the Lee valley area of the capital
and its backers say they are scouting similar golfing facilities
across the country.
“Struggling golf clubs in the UK and Europe are ideal,
please point them our way”, said Craig Stoddart, CEO of the Wave, a
private equity backed start-up whose first facility will open on a
100 acre site outside Bristol on September. “Golf courses not only
have the space and affinity with nature we need but the planning
[permission] to operate as leisure facilities.”
“You have this weird thing with surfing where demand
massively outstrips the natural supply of waves”, says Stoddart.
“Surfing is about to become an Olympic sport and is one of the
fastest growing sports in the world but as every surfer knows, good
waves – especially in summer – are few and far between.”
Golf has the opposite problem. In the UK there is is
significant oversupply of greens and participation rates are
tumbling because of pressures on family time and the sector’s
failure to engage women.
Etc.
Good thing surfing has equal pay.
Speaking of, whatever happened to the rap star Ludacris?
Is he still crafting his art?
And Mr. J.P. Currie, you come from the land of golf. Is paranoia
running deep there too?
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…publicity photo for Brad Gerlach and Martin
Potter's "Heritage" heat at the Hurley Pro, Trestles, five years
ago. You like this Grace Jones/David Bowie/Steve McQueen vibe?
Yeah, so do we. The ASP? Not quite so thrilled. "They thought it
was too racey, too much bikini in it. Dude, it's laughable. Don't
we do our fucking sport at the beach? And don't they wear bikinis
at the beach? It brings a bit of showmanship to the fucking thing.
If I was still on tour, I'd be fucking bringing the show. These
guys need some serious consultation!" | Photo: Kane Skennar
Long Read: Brad Gerlach’s beautiful
perpetual adolescence!
By Jamie Tierney
Former world number one pitches autobiographical
surf movie to filmmaker. Adventure follows.
In 2014, Brad Gerlach was 48 years old, but
those were regular human years.
He was operating on dog years, but in reverse.
So he was more like seven or eight – in a good way. He had a
childlike fascination with everything, music, food, photography,
film, politics, sports, travel. He was the only pro surfer I’ve
ever met who would post pictures on Instagram of trends in women’s
fashion and add captions like, “I dig this look.”
His enthusiasm and energy were infectious. When he would see my
dog, he’d get on the ground, roll around with him, let him cover
his face with his wet tongue. “This is my favorite dog in the
world!” He’d say. He fully embraced his ADD. Unlike many pro
athletes, he was genuinely interested in other people but couldn’t
last long on any topic so he’d bounce around. My conversations with
him had a fun roller coaster quality to them.
In April of that year, Brad asked me if I wanted to come to
Indonesia to film him. He’d been working on a surfing instructional
book and martial arts inspired “Wave Ki” training guide for close
to a decade. He had a South African photographer, Gerhard
Englebrecht (who tragically passed away in a motorbike accident in
Bali in 2017) onboard as well. Brad wanted photos of himself doing
all of the maneuvers he describes how to do in his book. He needed
video as well for the companion website he intended to launch. He
said he had all the moves shot already except for backside late
drops and airs so the mission here was to get them.
He booked me a flight that connected to from LAX to Bali via
Tokyo and Singapore. Thirty hours later I arrived in Denpasar and
met Brad’s personal airport fixer Mr Widi. Mr Widi wasn’t much more
than five feet tall. He was deferential to a fault and bowed to me
at least 10 ten times when we met. But he was the man at DPS. He
escorted me right past a massive immigration line, had my visa on
demand handled before I even got on the airport wifi, and led me
down to a secret luggage area where my bags were already waiting
for me. A couple steps later, I blinked and hit by a blast of
Balinese sun and humidity. Total time from plane to curb – less
than 5 minutes. Mr Widi had this shit dialed.
Brad’s driver, Budi, was waiting for me at his minivan with an
ice cold water. I said my goodbyes to Mr Widi and gave him my best
American guy attempt at a couple bows to thank him.
Budi drove me straight to a wave near Nusa Dua where Brad was
already out surfing. At this point I was so tired and jet lagged
that it took me 15 minutes to get the camera set up. The waves were
10 feet and slamming on an outside slab. I met Gerhard and he said
this was the spot where Brad had gotten a cover shot for the
Surfers Journal doing a stylish bottom turn on a huge wave.
I pointed the camera toward the ocean and started shooting. The
wind came up quickly and turned the waves to shit. Brad caught a
close out and paddled in.
He was living a two-bedroom place in Seminyak he called Villa
Gorilla. Like many Bali expat pads, it was a little slice of
heaven. You entered though a big wall, that masked what was behind
it, to a shaded swimming pool. To the left was a small courtyard
with a covered patio kitchen and comfy lounges. The bedrooms were
in the back. Mine had a cushy bed, ice cold A/C, black out curtains
and an epic outdoor shower. I felt like I could sleep for three
days.
Brad Gerlach was self-styled a wild man. For most of his career
he had long hair, an expanding collection of tattoos, guitars and
and ambition to become surfing’s first true rock star. He was
brash, outspoken, had a razor sharp wit and could do pitch perfect
imitations of nearly every surfer on tour. He once hosted a bikini
contest and interviewed the contests while impersonating Mark
Occhilupo, right in front of Occy and his friends in his hometown
of Cronulla.
Gerr burst onto the pro surf scene in 1985 at age 19 when he won
the Stubbies Pro at Oceanside CA, a few miles away from where he
grew up in Encinitas. The next year he climbed to #1 in the world,
but much to his chagrin, never won a world title. He came closest
in 1991 when he led the ratings for most of the year, but had a
shocker in Hawaii and finished 2nd to Damien Hardman.
In 1992, he quit the tour at age 25.
The contests then were mostly held in shitty city beach break
surf around the world and Brad wanted to find “the artistic side of
surfing.” He took acid at Macchu Picchu, played guitar on the
streets of Paris for loose change and rode waves naked in France.
During his extended 1990’s walkabout, most of his sponsors took a
hike too.
Some might say he was living the life of a perpetual adolescent,
but shit, if that was the case the guy was making it work. He had a
flat belly, a ton of frequent flier miles and a garage full of
amazing boards. His $800 USD a month living expenses here in Bali
included a villa, a driver, a maid and a chef.
He reinvented his career in the early 2000’s by becoming a big
wave tow surfer. He teamed up with straight laced Mike Parsons,
Jekyll to his Hyde. He charged on the epic first strike mission to
Cortes Bank in 2001, filmed for the Billabong Odyssey project and
won the XXL Biggest Wave Award for a 68 foot tow entry at Todos
Santos in 2006. Along the way he tried to freshen up pro surfing’s
30 year old competitive format by creating his team based “The
Game” concept. The Game brought some fun and excitement to surfing.
It was used for a few years at the ESPN X-Games and later by
Quiksilver and Red Bull before it fizzled out in the late
2000s.
Now, he was splitting time between LA and Bali, working as a
surf coach to Conner and Parker Coffin and a handful of mostly
wealthy clients around the world. He had never married or had any
kids and his life at this moment was primarily built upon riding
waves, eating good food, playing music and hanging out with his
friends.
Some might say he was living the life of a perpetual adolescent,
but shit, if that was the case the guy was making it work. He had a
flat belly, a ton of frequent flier miles and a garage full of
amazing boards. His $800 USD a month living expenses here in Bali
included a villa, a driver, a maid and a chef.
For someone like me who wondered if he was cut out for the
typical American adult office cubicle job, two weeks vacation a
year, 2.5 kids life, Brad’s alternative was a revelation. He didn’t
need any of it. He was living better without all that hustle and
hassle.
Brad was notorious for picking apart the flaws of the world’s
best as a webcast commentator. He often offended the delicate
sensibilities of so many surfers on tour with his pointed
critiques.
He wasn’t rejecting the idea of growing up, he was just choosing
not to do it.
But in spite of all of that, he had goals. Number one for him
was this book on technique that he couldn’t seem to finish. The
writing for it was all done, but the visuals were a problem. Of
course, he could have easily licensed pics of John John, Kelly or
Medina doing the moves he was describing, but that would have
fucked with his whole sense of identity. Brad was obsessed with
surfing form, a trait he inherited from his father an Olympic diver
for the Hungarian national team in the 1950’s. So if Brad was
explaining concepts in the text he also had to show you the way he
was doing it in the photos with the exact positioning he was
describing.
Brad was notorious for picking apart the flaws of the world’s
best as a webcast commentator. He often offended the delicate
sensibilities of so many surfers on tour with his pointed
critiques.
Now, as he scrolled through Adobe Bridge on photographer
Gerhard’s computer, he was his own worst critic. Sure, he had a few
sequences of cutbacks, bottom turns and tube rides that were
acceptable for the book, but he hadn’t gotten anything resembling a
proper late backside drop or backhand air.
Time was running out. He had his content team in place and was
ready to make a move. “Guys, there’s one spot in the world I can
get these both done. We’re going to Lakey Peak.”
The outside section of Cobblestones was fun and ripple, but the
inside was where the action was. When it hit a shallow spot it
would throw out a bit of crumble mid face that provided a perfect
and predictable launch ramp. The only problem was the ever present
reef that was nearly dry on the landing.
Brad was nothing if not determined.
On each wave, he’d do a few flowing turns on the outside and
then set up for the inside gurgle. The problem was that the ramp
wasn’t really conducive to the type of air he wanted to do. The
wind was also a problem. It was non existent early and when it did
come up around nine am it was blowing in the wrong direction for
airs. Brad would set up for launch and then it would throw him
laterally instead of vertically and his board would sail away from
him. He could have landed multiple chop hop rotations into the
flats, but those weren’t going to be good enough for the book.
Over the course of the next few mornings, Gerhard and I
dutifully pointed our lenses at Brad’s every wave, but came up
empty handed.
On the way back from Cobbestones, we’d stop the boat at Lakey
Peak. The wind would be well up by then and would be blowing into
the rights at Lakeys. Gerhard and I would step off on the reef,
climb the viewing tower that had been built on it and set up shop.
The air section on the rights here was just as shallow as
Cobblestones but the landings were much softer and easier. Still,
watching a guy at 48 try to re learn how to do airs was tough. He’d
landed a few in the 90’s, but hadn’t given them much thought until
now.
After lunch each day, Brad would be exhausted and sore. He’d
retire to his room to nap and play guitar. After an hour or so, I’d
check in with him. “Do you think you’ll want to surf again later
today, Brad?” “Nah, man.” He’d say. “Get out there.”
So for the next four afternoons, I got to paddle out to the Peak
at 2pm and stay out until the tropical clouds wafted over the
volcanic mountains and the sky would turned ablaze. The left at
Lakeys was the most mechanical and rippable wave I’d ever surfed.
The right was shorter and trickier but super fun too. The job
shooting Brad transformed one of the best surf trips I’d ever been
on. I’d done a number of filming trips with groms and young pros
hunting for clips and this was a breath of fresh air. Those dudes
would literally surf all day leaving me sunburned and with a raging
headache at night from squinting through glare into a small
viewfinder.
This trip, comparatively, was a dream.
Gerhard and I would drink Bintangs in the evenings and take
portraits of each other in the soft light that we could use for our
Tinder profiles. The Lakey Peak village didn’t offer much
nightlife, but a bodyboarder would have sex each evening in his
room with girlfriend, and she was so loud that the whole camp could
hear her. Listening in was the extent of our entertainment.
Before bed, Brad would review footage and photos and with
Gerhard and I. He’d painstakingly go frame by frame through every
moment of his failed airs, rub his sore shoulder and try to figure
out what he was doing wrong. I gently explained to him, that, while
I had no idea how to do airs myself I’d filmed enough kids learning
how to do them and they all started by doing small lateral reverses
before learning to go bigger and more vertical. Baby steps. Brad
was trying to sprint before he could walk.
Deep down, I think he agreed with me, but he could not let go of
his quixotic quest to nail the Slater style dream air shot he had
for himself in his head.
A solid swell hit at the end of our trip and Brad was back in
his element at Periscopes and on big hollow lefts at the Peak. His
trademark style and flair was all still there. We had a beer on the
last night and he pulled me aside and talked to me in a serious
voice.
“I want to go on a bunch of trips this year,” he said. “I want
to go to Japan, the Philippines, Micronesia and a lot more places
around here and I want you to come with me. I want to make a
movie.”
I immediately wondered who would finance a something like that.
Would it be Brad? I think he had some savings from his work and pro
career, but he wasn’t exactly rich. Anyway, it didn’t matter. I’d
gotten laid off from a good job at Quiksilver a couple years
before, and no one in the surf industry was hiring. I didn’t have
anything better to do than cruise around Asia with Brad.
I clearly wasn’t going to make much, if any money on this film,
but if Brad was paying my way, it was worth it because it meant I
was going to be able to surf all the places we went. I was
down.
“Let’s do it,” I said. “I’m in.”
We went back to Bali the next day. The Tinder action in Sumbawa
was non-existent so Gerhard and I hit our phones hard the minute we
arrived in Denpasar. We never looked up once from our screens on
the hour long ride from the airport to Villa Gorilla in
Seminyak.
I had a few days left in Bali before going to Western Australia
to write an updated profile on Clay Marzo for the now defunct
Surfing magazine. I surfed Canngu, bummed around the
cafes and bars in Seminyak. I went on a couple epic fail Tinder
dates. One of them was a Australian girl who in person was
literally twice the size she was in her profile pics.
I said goodbye to Brad, thanked him for the good times and said
we’d be in touch when we were both back in LA. Mr Widi guided me
through another breezy 10-minute trip from the curb to the seat of
my Jetstar flight to Perth. I then went on a whirlwind trip for the
next two months to WA, Ghana, Spain, France, the UK, Romania,
followed by a month South Africa and six more weeks in France. I
was 40 and living looser and more recklessly than I ever had in my
life.
I met up again with Brad later that summer in California when he
was in the middle of training for his legends heat at Trestles
against Martin Potter.
He was averaging three surfs a day in between “Wave Ki” sessions
in the dojo. Brad’s passion to beat Pottz stemmed from bad blood
they’d had during Gerr’s title run year of 1991. They nearly came
to blows during a heat in Japan and the famously fiery Pottz
punched a hole in Brad’s board. I got the sense that Brad wasn’t
happy that Pottz had build his post contest career as a webcast
commentator on the back of his single world title in 1989. Brad now
found himself mostly on the outside of the pro surf bubble looking
in and, I think, deep down he believed the reason was that he’d let
his best shot at a title slip away in ’91, the year of his punch up
with Pottz. Brad wanted that world title chip that Pottz carried
and because he’d didn’t have it, he was going to enhance his legacy
by proving that he was by far the better surfer now.
The media lead up to the event was meant to allow for some good
natured ribbing and trash talking between the two, but it was
uncomfortable because these two clearly didn’t like each other.
They were just as angry about what happened in Japan as they were
over twenty years before.
Brad also saw the match as an opportunity to bring some needed
personality and flair to a pro tour that had become blandly
conservative. He creative directed a James Bond style photo shoot
to help promote it.
He wore a custom suit, borrowed a friend’s vintage Porsche and
enlisted the girlfriends of some pals to serve as models. Fashion
and lifestyle photographer Kane Skennar shot the pics in Malibu and
I grabbed a couple behind the scenes video shots. Total budget:
$0.
The result was on par with something you’d see in Vanity
Fair or Vogue. Of course it was way too sexy and edgy
for the ASP who refused to run on their social media channels.
The ASP’s unimpressed response to Brad’s photoshoot was probably
the first sign that the Pottz/Gerr grudge match wasn’t going to
live up to the hype. The second was the day itself. The contest
director called the legends heat on at end of the day when the late
summer northwest wind was well on it. The peaking south swell was
too big for Lowers and the sets were wide and burgery. Pottz had
been at the comp since dawn and had been calling heats through the
heat of the day. I saw his face as he put on his spring suit and
grab his quad finned board with signature flames on the rails. He
didn’t look like a guy ready to set the lineup on fire – he looked
fried. He made a long slow walk from the tower to the other side of
the point.
Meanwhile, Brad was bouncing up and down in the competitor’s
area. He’d already had two warm up surfs and was raring to go. His
friends and family showed up in force wearing custom made, “Go
Gerr” tees. They cheered as Brad stormed down the steps of tower
and ran down to the water’s edge.
The horn blew and Brad’s was quickly on a set wave right. He
took off wide of the point as a long wall stretched out before him.
He could have done 5 easy swoops and gotten and 8 or more, but that
wasn’t what he came to do. He didn’t just want to beat Pottz. He
wanted to annihilate him. He wanted to show the world that somehow,
impossibly, he was better surfer at 48 than he was at 24.
He nearly did it.
He came off the bottom of that first wave and, holy shit. He
threw his board beyond vertical and blasted out his fins. The crowd
was awed. This was shocking. Brad was going for a move in a legends
heat that didn’t really exist most of the time he was on tour. He
looked sweet as his fins reengaged, but seemed to make the mistake
of looking down the line before he landed. He went down hard.
He quickly got back into position and caught his second wave.
This time he went for a front side air but didn’t bring his body
far enough over his board and fell again.
Pottz was left alone outside as biggest set off the day came
through. He tried to scratch his way into a bomb, but couldn’t
summon the energy to get into it. He wore the next 10 waves on the
head. Brad, meanwhile, realized what he needed to do. He quit
trying to put on a show. He used his fitness edge to full
advantage, caught a bunch of waves, did some stylish flowing turns,
and won going away.
After it was over, I met Brad’s father Joe for the first
time.
After his Olympic career he starred in a traveling Evel Kenevel
style stunt show in the 60’s and 70’s, including a bit where he’d
leap off10 story buildings. He was Brad’s technical surf coach
throughout his career despite the fact that he never learned to
surf. Now 75, Joe still had a trim physique and a twinkle in his
eye. Joe’s analysis of the heat: Brad was still an athlete, Potts
wasn’t anymore.
The funny thing is, Brad’s triumphant return to the professional
surfing stage didn’t make him yearn for his glory days. He’d
managed to keep himself relevant and noticed for over 30 years, and
now he didn’t have anything else to prove.
Brad never made he surf movie he pitched to me in Sumbawa. Villa
Gorilla in Bali isn’t his anymore. Neither is the house with the
dojo in West LA. Brad met his Australian wife Anna in 2015 and now
lives with her and their toddler son, Zeppelin and newborn boy
Ziggy near Bells Beach in Torquay. He put the book project on the
shelf but is going to launch his long awaited Wave Ki website this
year.
I usually see him in the summer in California when he comes out
to coach a few of his students during the US Open.
“The funny thing about being an adult,” he told me on drive from
LA to Huntington Beach. “Is that’s the hardest thing to do until
you meet the right person. Then it’s easy.”
It took Brad 50 years to come to that conclusion.
It’s taken me 45 to reach the same.
Why is it that society views a never married heterosexual
bachelor in his mid 40’s as an oddity, but it’s perfectly
acceptable to be a divorced Dad at that age?
Isn’t it better to wait until you’re sure you’re doing the right
thing rather than make a potentially catastrophic mistake just to
stay on a socially acceptable timeline?
I got married last month and took the first full time job I’ve
had since 2011.
So, is the grown-up life the way to go?
Can love and security measure up to those tropical sunsets and
Bintangs?
I guess when you’re ready, there comes a point when it’s not
even a choice. It just feels like destiny.
It just takes some of us a little longer to get to a place where
we figure that out.
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Environmentalism: Gimme lots of nasty
poisons to wrap around my thighs!
By Chas Smith
(...and penis)
Billabong announced recently that 100% of its
boardshorts will be made from recycled plastics to much cheering
and general happiness from environmentalists and surfers who
consider themselves environmentalists when the Norwegians come into
town all menacing and efficient and let’s look at the picture of
how it all happens very quickly. Let’s do it together.
So they take plastic bottles and turn them into pellets that get
spun into yarn which gets transformed into fabric that wraps around
your thighs and also, I don’t want to be crass here, but also your
penis.
Oh, I don’t want to take anything away from Billabong’s
environmentalism, nor yours, but isn’t plastic known to be very
nasty substance, leeching harmful chemicals forever etc? And of
course we don’t want it in the ocean but do we want it wrapped
around our thighs and also penises?
Maybe.
Maybe it’s exactly what we deserve.
But if we didn’t deserve it and/or you, like me, don’t
believe in karma then what should Billabong do with all their new
plastic?
I would like to see wonderful plastic statues of Joel Parkinson
erected in every major and mid-major Australian town. Very
realistic statues that look like this…