It is curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare.

There's this little thing that happens this time of year and gets far more coverage than it deserves - and consequently annoys me - the Sydney to Hobart yacht race.

Referred to incessantly as the Bluewater Classic in the Australian media, the Sydney to Hobart is little more than the mega-rich (come on, the naming sponsors are Rolex ferChristsake) in their expensive toys playing soldiers pirates for the weekend and then have the nerve to carp on about how dangerous it all is. If it's so dangerous that you need to go on and on (and on and on and on) about it, don't do it! If not, then shut the hell up about it.

For two bloody weeks, all we get is a bunch of private school-educated prats bathing in the glory of you stupidity bravery while the spend the week after they arrive getting drunk, pissing and vomiting in the streets and harassing the local ladies with their tales of valour, and I for one don't like it!