While the Local Party draws its energy from the dream crystal depths of Tasmania, this is how disruptive forces grow in Australian politics.
In the middle of the town of Cygnet, the midweek market is buzzing with life, the farmers and old church ladies and hippies have come to town. With the green hills beyond and the Victorian-era buildings looking down – the old bank is now a B&B, the old grocer is now the ultra-hip Red Velvet Lounge – the place is experiencing its first big days after COVID.
Farmers, real farmers, with trays of produce! Wild children, real wild children, without shoes! They hang out in a booth that might be called something like “wooden shit,” with bowls and spice shakers and things like that. There’s a used book stall from a van, a fish farm stall and a sausage sizzle run from a black tent, by the black T-shirt clad “Knights of the Pissoir”, residents of the local smash palace, pig boys all, resolutely against all that hippie shit that blew into town about half a century ago.
In the midst of it all, Leanne Minshull, a petite woman buzzing with energy, blond-gray hair and in a pale blue sweater, tries to spark a bunch of interest in the Local Party and citizen juries.