What we need is a milk war – me and the cows strongly đź’Şdisagree

In February 1985, Professor A. G. Lloyd contributed an article to the Sydney Morning Herald with the splendid headline, “What we need is a milk war”. I found it among the papers of the Nowra Dairy Co-operative. By then, the Australian dairy industry had been fighting itself for the best part of a century. Apparently, nobody thought it had quite finished the job.

Every farming family knows something about a long-running dispute. The cousin who borrowed the trailer in 1974 and never brought it back. The father whose succession plan left the farm to the son who gambled it away. The siblings who haven’t spoken for twenty years and can no longer remember what they were fighting about. The dairy industry had all of these characteristics, plus several thousand cows, a collection of governments and an astonishing capacity to hold a grudge.

Our story begins in 1908, when Sydney milk buyers cut the price paid to farmers from 10 pence a gallon to six, in the middle of a drought. Farmers went on strike. The young Dairy Farmers Co-operative offered seven and a half pence, helped Jamberoo clear its debts and financed a new factory. Everyone shook hands, or something approximating it. Peace lasted 23 years.

In 1931, with the Depression biting, a Sydney distributor offered Jamberoo a better price for its milk. Jamberoo had recently opened a new brick factory and owed ÂŁ17,000. Dairy Farmers considered this a betrayal. It expelled 100 members, many of them Jamberoo farmers, and cancelled their shares. Jamberoo remembered. In the dairy industry, a grudge had an exceptionally long shelf life.

The NSW Government created a Milk Board to restore order. Unfortunately, the Board could declare prices but couldn’t enforce them. Historian Jan Todd called it a “toothless tiger”. Farmers received less than half the declared price. The government tried again, gave the new Board some teeth, and regulated the fresh milk industry for the next half century. Everyone complained about regulation, but at least they had something in common.

Then came 1984. George Orwell had warned us about surveillance, propaganda and perpetual war. He had overlooked the NSW milk industry.

On 9 April, supermarket owner Jim Fleming put Victorian milk on the shelves of his Jewel stores in Sydney. It came in two-litre plastic bottles and cost nine cents less. The Victorian milk represented about one per cent of the NSW market. Bill Crothers of Midland Milk described it as “only a hatful of milk”. NSW reacted as though Victoria had crossed the Murray with tanks.

Milk vendors blocked Macquarie Street with their trucks. Premier Neville Wran came out to negotiate. More than 800 farmers launched Operation Padlock, picketing Jewel supermarkets and standing outside the Midland Milk factory in Shepparton. Ten days later, Fleming conceded defeat. “We are pretty good, but not that good,” he said.

By February 1985, Professor Lloyd was calling for another milk war, arguing that competition could expose inefficiencies and help Sydney consumers paying high milk prices. The farmers, processors, retailers and vendors had rather different ideas about who was inefficient and who should pay.

Federal Primary Industry Minister John Kerin tried to bring the states together under a national plan. In March 1986, he spent an entire day locked in a room with three farmer leaders. They emerged with the comfort clause, an arrangement allowing a state to withdraw from the national scheme if another state’s milk undercut its market. NSW used it twice within a year. I suppose we should be grateful they agreed on anything.

Back on the South Coast, two cousins who had grown up together in Jamberoo were taking a much less complicated approach. Russell Fredericks managed Nowra’s dairy factory. Geoff Boxsell managed Jamberoo. During a drive to Sydney in late 1982, they joked about putting “the cat among the pigeons” by proposing a merger. They eventually brought the two co-operatives together.

Dairy Farmers tried to persuade Nowra to join it instead. Nowra’s farmers rejected the offer. It had been more than fifty years since the Depression-era expulsions. Apparently that was too soon. Six years later, Shoalhaven, the co-operative formed by Jamberoo and Nowra, joined Dairy Farmers anyway.

Then came the Italians. In 1999, Parmalat offered Dairy Farmers members $4.02 a share for part of their holdings, under a proposal that would give the Italian company control. Farmers gathered at the Burrawang Hotel, passed motions of no confidence and eventually took the dispute to the Supreme Court.

Dairy Farmers responded with advertisements declaring, “Beautiful one day, foreign-owned the next.” Geoff Boxsell wrote a song to the tune of “I Am Australian”. He called it “We Ain’t Italian”.

The court found that material distributed by the board was misleading and deceptive, although the judge made no finding of dishonesty or bad faith. The directors were ordered to pay legal costs personally. In April 2000, around 3,000 farmers voted at a special meeting. The three directors facing removal retained their seats with overwhelming support. Managing director Alan Tooth offered a memorable observation. “Any jackass can knock down a barn but it takes a team of skilled carpenters to build one.”

While everyone was fighting, Victoria decided it no longer wanted the regulated system. As the country’s largest milk-producing state, its decision left the others with little room to move. On 1 July 2000, the regulated fresh milk markets disappeared.

Within a year, average NSW dairy farm income had fallen from $82,000 to an estimated $37,000. Around 200 NSW dairy farms closed in the first six months. There were winners, there were losers, and there were families whose futures changed forever.

I’ve been looking back over these events while also reflecting on something I discovered preparing for a World Peace Day presentation to school students in Cowra. In studying the history of war, I was confronted by how persistently organised violence has appeared across human generations.

Of course, a milk war is a very different proposition from an armed conflict. Nobody should confuse a blockade of supermarket milk deliveries with the devastation of military warfare. But the language interests me. For a century, the dairy industry talked about wars, battles, invasions, threats, surrender and enemies.

Farmers fought processors. Farmers fought retailers. Processors fought retailers. States fought states. Co-operatives fought other co-operatives. Farmers fought farmer. Farmers fought their own co-operatives.

Governments regulated everybody, then deregulated everybody. And all of them believed they had something important to defend. Often they did.

A farmer fighting for a price that covers the cost of production has a legitimate grievance. So does a consumer struggling to afford food. A milk vendor protecting a family business and a processor trying to keep a factory operating both have reasons to be concerned about their future. Their interests sometimes conflict. Finding an arrangement that allows them to live alongside one another is the challenge.

Looking back, the most interesting moments in the dairy industry’s history may be the occasions when people stopped fighting long enough to negotiate. Kerin and the farmer leaders in that locked room. Russell Fredericks and Geoff Boxsell talking during their drive to Sydney. Farmers, vendors and processors sitting around George Davey’s pricing committee, part of the negotiations associated with the group the industry nicknamed the “milk mafia”.

Those conversations didn’t solve every problem. Some produced compromises that quickly unravelled. Others helped organisations and communities survive. I wonder how much of our energy, in agriculture and beyond, goes into proving that the other side is wrong. And how much we invest in understanding what they are trying to protect.

We teach children about the great wars of history, the victories, the defeats, the treaties and the terrible human cost. Perhaps we could spend a little more time teaching them how to negotiate before a disagreement becomes a conflict, and how to recognise when compromise is possible without abandoning what is fair.

As for the dairy industry, through every strike, blockade, court case, merger, price war and family grudge, the cows remained magnificently indifferent. Morning and afternoon, they turned up to be milked. They had no interest in who won.

And perhaps, after more than a century of dairy industry warfare, the question is whether the rest of us can learn to live with an outcome in which nobody has to lose.

Dear reader  FYI Dairy Farmers, with a capital D and F, refers to the Dairy Farmers Co-operative and the company that followed. Little bit of history – Dairy Farmers Milk Cooperative was formed on 15 January 1900. Sixty five stakeholders from the New South Wales Illawarra region, came together and agreed to run the organisation on true co-operative lines.

Dairy farmers, with a little d and f, are the people milking the cows. They were not always on the same side.

The reports list the costs and leave out the 4am alarm

I’ve spent this week reading 25 years of government reports on the NSW dairy industry. A Senate inquiry, two NSW parliamentary inquiries, three ACCC reports and the Department of Primary Industries’ latest industry overview.

I now know an extraordinary amount about structural adjustment, processing rationalisation, labour constraints and climate variability. I’ve also developed considerable sympathy for anyone whose job involves writing these reports.

The numbers are extraordinary. In 2000, NSW had 1,725 dairy farms. By 2025, that number had fallen to 443. Over the same period, the average herd more than doubled, from 155 to 343 cows, while annual milk production per cow increased by almost 50 per cent, from 4,827 to 7,013 litres.

The average herd has more than doubled, while each cow is producing nearly half as much milk again.

Apparently, the solution to having fewer farmers is to give the remaining ones twice as many cows and expect each cow to produce half as much milk again.

My family has been milking cows in this district since 1831, so I have some idea what happens behind those impressive statistics.

The reports list labour constraints. That’s the relief milker ringing at 3.30am to announce that his car has broken down. The cows, unfortunately, have not received the memo.

Input costs include the hay you bought in March for twice what you paid last year because the rain stopped in January. Land values are the neighbour selling to a developer, while your children calculate whether they could ever afford to come home and take over the farm.

Processing rationalisation is the letter announcing the closure of the dairy factory your grandfather helped build. Your milk will now travel another two hours to be processed somewhere else. The report calls this improved industry efficiency. Your grandfather might have had another description.

And then there’s the weather. The official terminology includes “climate variability, rainfall and irrigation reliability, heat and humidity, and natural disasters”. My friend Kate calls these things headwinds.

Dairy farmers have been dealing with them for generations. In a 1976 paper I found among the Nowra Dairy Co-operative records, Bega farmers said it like it is

“Come fire, flood or drought the milk must be produced.”

I came across a submission from Jackie Norman to the NSW parliamentary dairy inquiry. Jackie started dairying at 19. Looking back on what she called the industry’s golden era, she recalled that the hours were so long and the demands so intense that there wasn’t even time to prepare proper meals.

The golden era! I’d hate to see what she put down for the difficult years.

Of course, you could replace the dairy farm with almost any small business. The government reports would list compliance costs, energy prices, wages and productivity.

The cafĂ© owner would tell you about doing the BAS at the kitchen table at 10pm. The plumber would mention the invoice that’s been overdue for 90 days, from a customer big enough to make chasing payment uncomfortable. The shopkeeper could describe the summer storm that flooded the premises the week before Christmas, after all the stock had been paid for.

And every small business owner knows the experience of covering for an employee whose family has had an emergency. Policy researchers have a term for this: lived experience.

I’ve been thinking about those 1,282 dairy farms that disappeared from NSW over 25 years. Some farmers retired. Some sold. Some changed direction. Others fought for years to keep going before finally deciding they’d had enough.

The government reports record the closures, the increase in herd size, the improvement in production per cow and the economic consequences of industry restructuring.

What I’d like to know is how many of those farmers remember the morning they milked their cows for the last time. And whether, after a lifetime of getting up at 4am, they managed to sleep in the following morning.

Every insult aimed at One Nation is an own goal

Bogan. Cooker. Racist. Woke. Lefty. Latte sipper.

We throw these words around as though they explain people. Mostly, they put people in a box and give us permission to stop listening.

The words change depending on who is speaking.

We may believe these words make our case. They usually do the opposite.

I saw that when I spent five days handing out how-to-vote cards for the Community Independent candidate in Farrer. For much of that time, I stood beside the One Nation volunteers.

We talked, shared pastries and took turns doing the coffee run. I learnt their names and heard about their families, farms and communities.

I asked what had led them to One Nation. They talked about water, hospitals, services disappearing and decisions being made in cities by people who would never live with the results. Many had voted for the Coalition for decades and felt the party had stopped listening.

One Nation gave that disappointment somewhere to go. These people were talking about water buybacks, hospital visits and children leaving town. They were neither stupid nor aggressive. They had reasons for voting as they did.

One Nation tells people that educated elites look down on them. Call its voters stupid, backward or racist and you have helped One Nation prove its point.

It works both ways. Question a One Nation policy and you may be called woke before you have finished the sentence. Apparently, even a seventy-year-old dairy farmer can become an inner-city latte sipper without leaving the farm.

Once we put someone in a box, we stop being curious. We stop asking what happened, what changed and what might change again.

Labels end conversations. Questions start them.

If we want people to reconsider what they believe, insulting them is a very strange place to begin.

Here comes Pollyanna

I’ve just had a big birthday. The kind with a zero in it. You move into a new decade whether you’re ready or not.

Walking into the restaurant, half a dozen people I wasn’t dining with wished me happy birthday. That’s a small town for you. I’m noisy in this community. I have opinions, I used to write for the paper, and everybody knows what I think. Every time we have an election, people are convinced I’m standing for council. Apparently I’m just what council needs.

This post challenges that idea. Our community doesn’t need me. One person can’t deliver what this community deserves, and neither can nine. It needs an engaged community working together, not keyboard warriors: informed people with the skills to make sure the bureaucrats are working for us.

Around my own table were Greens, Labor supporters, independents and friends who had stood for council themselves. Between us we had campaigned, letterboxed, handed out how-to-vote cards and argued for change across more elections than any of us cared to count. If anyone in this district believed in democracy, it was us.

For the record, I’ve never voted for a party in my life. I vote for the person. Over the years that has meant I have voted Liberal, National, Labor, Greens and independent.

The talk turned to council. A councillor had resigned, and the by-election to replace him will cost ratepayers about $200,000. Our council is broke. That’s $200,000 it doesn’t have. The question went around the table: what could one councillor achieve when the bureaucrats seem to have the rest under their thumb?

This is how bad it is. I know our councillors. That’s what my year at the paper gave me. They spend a lot of time on social media trying to work out what the community cares about. So they’re hearing the loud voices, and like most communities, we have plenty of loud voices who all want different things.

I said I’d love to see us try what a district in north-east Victoria did. Build the community first. Find out what people want. Learn to solve problems together, and worry about who to elect after that.

One of my oldest friends smiled and said, “Here comes Pollyanna.”

I know her well enough to understand what she meant by that. Her focus was looking after her friend. She knows what twenty years of heart and soul in agriculture, encouraging people to believe we’re all in this together and the win-win is there if we go after it, had cost my mental health. I had witnessed failure first hand, and neither of us wanted a repeat. That’s how much my friends care. So I listen. I came home and had a big think about whether she was right.

This post is the big think. It ends in an electorate nobody at my dinner mentioned.

In December 2012, a small group from north-east Victoria got eleven minutes with their federal member, Sophie Mirabella. The meeting ended when she told them, “The people of Indi aren’t interested in politics.”

Her district knew her by then. She had boycotted the Apology to the Stolen Generations. She had stood beside Tony Abbott in front of the “Ditch the Witch” signs. Neither time did she ask her community what they thought. They had a member who didn’t speak for them.

They went home and proved her wrong.

The push had started with two young people who grew up in the district and moved to Melbourne for work, because they believed there was nothing at home for them. They decided to do something about it. The generation who had stayed backed them: young people with the idea, older people with the networks and the skills. Between them they ran hundreds of kitchen table conversations, asking what people wanted for the region.

And they argued. Some of the group wanted a seat at the table in Canberra. Others wanted the focus on the community itself. It was the same argument we had at my birthday dinner. Then they did what makes this movement so smart. They agreed to disagree and kept working, until they were confident the community was engaged and that a tilt at the seat was what the community wanted.

Before the 2013 election they wrote down what success looked like: engaged community members turning a safe seat into a marginal one. Winning came last on their own list of aims.

They won anyway. They unseated a frontbencher. They kept meeting between elections. When Cathy McGowan retired, the community chose Helen Haines, and the seat has now been theirs across five elections.

Hardly anyone in New South Wales has heard of Indi, and I’ve come to think that is the strength of it. They did it for the district, not for the fame.

My friend is right. People are hard to organise. Indi is proof that hard and impossible are different words.

It also helped me work out what all the council talk is about. When my neighbours decide I’m standing, it’s the habit we’ve all fallen into: find one noisy person, hand them the problem, and wait. Indi swapped that habit for a better one: believe you can do it yourselves.

We’re already proud of where we live. Imagine being proud of what we build together. Our dry stone walls have stood for a hundred and fifty years. They’re under threat and the reason they’re still standing is our community made it clear it cares about them. What we love survives because we stand up for it. That is true of walls, and it’s true of towns.

The people who wrote Indi’s story down ask a question.

“Have you wondered who is hearing your voice, listening to your community?”

My answer is the power is in your hands, too

So Pollyanna has a question of her own. Why does organising ourselves sound less realistic than spending another $200,000 on another election?

How my valley became Mosman or Toorak with a blowhole, one sale at a time

I have spent a lifetime at farm kitchen tables, and in every conversation the problem is someone else’s to fix. The council’s. Canberra’s. The person who never rang back. So we elect a politician every three years, and we wait.

Look at what that actually asks of them. I hand over my problem. My road, my rates, my paddock. So does my neighbour, and his neighbour, and every voter in the electorate. The politician ends up holding thirty thousand separate problems, most of them pulling against each other, and no honest hope of fixing them all. Politics becomes a queue of grievances, and campaigning becomes promising to move you up the queue. The politician can only promise, disappoint, and be replaced by a rival who promises louder. The loudest dog in the yard wins, every time. We built this machine, and then we blame the politician when it does what it was always going to do.

And while we queue, the big calls get made without us. Here’s how it works in my valley. A dairy farm comes up for sale. A Sydney buyer pays more than any farmer could ever earn back from milk, because he’s not buying a farm, he’s buying a view for six weekends a year. The farm next door is now worth city money too, so when that farmer retires, no young farming family can afford it either. Sale by sale, working farms become holiday homes that stand dark most of the year.

And it doesn’t stop at the farm gate. Every sale drags the price of an ordinary house up with it. Kiama is now the most expensive place to buy a home in regional New South Wales, dearer than Byron Bay. The nurse at the hospital can’t buy here. The teacher can’t. The kids who grew up here can’t. There is no affordable housing here, and no social housing. The school loses children, the shops lose staff, and the town that made the views worth buying slowly stops being a town. It becomes a postcode with scenery. Mosman with a blowhole.

Nobody chose this. There was no meeting about where it was all heading, no vote, no moment anyone could point at and object to. Each sale was legal and each seller had every right. But add it all up and my district has been rezoned by the market, one sale at a time, and nobody ever asked us what the best outcome would be for the farms, the buyers, the nurses the kids or the community. I watch it from my own front gate.

So here is the problem: we hand our say to a politician with thirty thousand problems in the queue, and the calls that change our districts get made elsewhere, by the market, the local council, the state government. What’s left for the rest of us is Facebook, one keyboard at a time. Each of us finds our tribe there, and the tribe does what tribes do: agrees with itself, louder every year. Plenty of conversations. Never one table.

And here is the goal: communities with the knowledge, confidence and skills to find the best outcome for everyone affected.

One rural community in north-east Victoria worked out how to get everyone to the same table, and it’s still going strong five elections later. In my next post I’ll tell you what they did. Then I want to work on the question that follows with you: how do we do it in every district in Australia?

Agriculture talks about the burden of regulation. Fewer talk about the licence it already holds: public trust.

I have a rule about agricultural stories on LinkedIn. I keep scrolling, unless Karin Stark wrote them.

Last week I broke it.

The post asked why any young person would choose agriculture when farming often feels like a fight with government.

That caught my eye, because the young farmers I know are still choosing it. Succession. Land prices. The money it takes to get started. Those are the barriers in my part of the world. Agriculture here is also attracting young women from urban areas, women who have chosen farming with their eyes open.

Then came the line that sent me in a different direction.

No other industry or profession has to put up with this.

Plenty of industries do. We all live with forms of social control every day. We have licences to drive. Permits to renovate. Working with Children Checks to volunteer at the school canteen. Certificates to serve alcohol. Council approvals for sheds. Dogs are registered and microchipped. A council ranger can fine you for walking one in the wrong place or leaving its mess behind.

Most of us renew permissions all the time.

Farming is different.

A person can buy land tomorrow and call themselves a farmer. Farmers work inside rules, inspections and regulations, but the occupation itself has very little formal licensing. No registration board. No annual renewal. No professional body that can take the title away.

As a dairy farmer, I was licensed under food safety laws. That licence covers what I produce rather than me. Farmers who use restricted chemicals need accreditation. Water has rules. Chemicals have rules. Food safety has rules.

Farmers did the training. We learned the rules. Then we went further. We brought in accredited specialists, precision technology and contractors who could put the right product in the right place. This morning, a contractor’s drone was working in the paddocks outside my front window. This is modern farming too. Training. Skill. Technology. Rules taken seriously.

When a clear standard is set, farmers usually meet it. Often they go past it.

The licence still sits mostly on the product, the chemical, the water or the process. The person doing the farming carries something else. Public trust.

The public trusts us to manage land, draw water, run animals and produce food. That trust has no renewal date. It has no form to fill in. It has no annual fee.

It can feel like freedom, until public trust shifts. Anyone who watched the live export debate knows how quickly that can happen.

Before I came back to farming, I was a community pharmacist. Pharmacists renew their registration every year. They have to show they are fit to practise and prove their professional development hours. The annual renewal can be annoying, and it also keeps the profession’s standing current.

Pharmacists also pay a serious annual levy to the Pharmacy Guild. In all my years behind the counter, I rarely heard pharmacists complain about it. They could see what it bought.

The Guild has delivered five-year Community Pharmacy Agreements under governments of both colours. It has kept location rules in place in a way few small business sectors have managed. Its method is simple. A pharmacist in every electorate. A relationship with the local MP. Clear requests. Pressure used carefully.

The noise stays in reserve. That is why the threat of it counts.

A strong lobby lets its members get on with their business while skilled people handle the influencing.

I want that for farmers.

Twenty-five years ago I came back to farming, and land clearing was the argument of the day. Peak bodies answered aerial mapping with press releases. Too often, they still reach for the same tools. Press release. Rebuttal. Rally. Submission.

Those tools have their place. They are not a strategy on their own.

Influence is a skill. It can be learned. And the research is consistent: people trust people. They are wary of institutions. A farmer telling their own story will always be more convincing than a spokesperson reading a statement.

Through Action4Agriculture we spent years training young people in agriculture as their own spokespeople. We brought in experts from around the world to teach it. The skills are available. Agriculture has invested in many things before investing in its people.

Members can see activity more easily than they can see influence. A rally looks like action. Quiet influence is harder to put in a newsletter. The risk is that organisations start proving they are busy, rather than showing what has changed.

The lobbies that win in this country often make less noise. The Pharmacy Guild. The clubs. The mining industry. The property lobby. People may have strong views about whether those groups serve the public interest. They know how influence works. They know who to talk to and when to move. They know when a public campaign helps and when it harms.

Agriculture starts with something many of those industries will never have. People still have genuine affection for farmers.

Farmers are trusted in rural electorates. They have the stories. They understand the land. They can explain what is at stake better than anyone sitting in an office far from the paddock.

The decision-makers are knowable. MPs, advisers, departments, councils, agencies, journalists and community leaders can be reached when the industry is disciplined about who speaks, what is being asked for, and why it matters.

Too often, peak bodies stand between farmers and decision-makers, speaking over both.

I spent years running a national program that taught young people in agriculture how influence is built. We brought in experts from around the world to teach it. The skills are available. Agriculture has invested in many things before investing properly in that.

Every farmer I raise this with points to the same problem. Fragmentation. Cotton, dairy, grain, livestock, irrigators, dryland farmers, each with its own body, board, chair and table.

Farmers have seen this before. Dairy deregulation. Processor mergers. Banks leaving town. Bigger and fewer has often meant further away and less accountable. That concern comes from experience.

Perhaps the starting point is making better use of the structures agriculture already has.

The National Farmers’ Federation exists. State farming bodies exist. Commodity bodies exist. The challenge is getting them to speak with one clear voice when it counts.

Three state farming bodies recently found that voice on water. That points to what is possible.

Joining forces one issue at a time can win a round. The harder task is turning that discipline into a habit, so agriculture is heard before the fight begins, rather than once everyone has retreated to their own corner.

I do not have the full answer.

Agriculture has trusted people in every electorate, stories people care about, and a public that still wants to believe farmers are part of the solution. The question is whether our representative bodies are prepared to use all that with more discipline.

Other industries deal with scrutiny, rules, licences, audits and governments that test their patience. So does every individual. We renew proof all the time.

Agriculture has been given something rarer. A licence built on public trust.

That is the one we renew in how we farm, how we speak, and how well we use the trust we still have.

A Marketing Moo-vement in the Wrong Direction?

Cows are clever but kangaroos and wallabies are doing it in high heels and backwards

“Beef cattle produce 12 times more methane than kangaroos per kilo of meat, so they have a much bigger impact on the environment,” Professor Wilson said. Source 

 

While this graphic admirably attempts to shine a light on the often-overlooked virtues of livestock—turning food we can’t eat into protein—it somewhat misses the mark as a compelling piece of marketing. It’s a bit like trying to sell a car by saying, “It’s not a bicycle!” Yes, it’s technically true, but it’s not exactly the kind of rousing endorsement that wins over hearts and minds.

This blog post is part of a series on livestock industry marketing faux pas

The focus on how livestock make use of inedible materials, though an interesting fact, comes across as a bit defensive, as if the industry is constantly on trial, needing to justify its very existence. It’s as if livestock farming is nervously raising its hand in class to say, “But I’m useful, too!” Meanwhile, we could be highlighting the genuine, undeniable positives of animal agriculture—things like maintaining beautiful grasslands, sustaining rural communities, and producing some of the most nutritious food available.

This is a prime example of livestock marketing going udderly awry. The  reality is, comparing livestock to, say, herbivorous marsupials with their impressively low methane emissions might just backfire. Instead of putting livestock on the back foot, why not put them in the spotlight for the right reasons? Rather than harping on about what they do with inedible crops, we could be championing the innovation and sustainability practices within the industry that are shaping a better future.

So, instead of trotting out charts that feel like they’re pleading the case, perhaps it’s time for a more confident narrative—one that celebrates the irreplaceable role of livestock in a sustainable food system. After all, the best defence is often a good offence, especially when you’ve got a story worth telling.

#AgriMarketing #FarmFails #Sustainability #Livestock #FoodSystems #Moo-vement #EcoFriendly #Agriculture