One way to look at life, is that it is the composition of many value judgements – made constantly. Made in moments, in split second intervals; made consciously and unconsciously; influenced by an exceptionally diverse range of things.
These can also be considered, “decisions”. Instincts play a role – a significant role. But I do think it is the sum total of these judgements, the trends in these decisions, the consistencies, that play a big role in the overall scheme of a person’s life. Much more so than the so called “big decisions” or turning points.
I have been thinking about this a lot for a while and find the whole idea pretty fascinating. Human judgement never ceases to surprise me. But I think the exciting idea to grab hold of is that we are constantly making judgements and it is these judgements that unfurl not only the present but the future. The decisions to put yourself in particular environments and company is, in my view, one of the most significant things we are constantly doing - a lot of the time "unconsciously".
Personally, I’m not sure how good a “judge” I am... We all like to think we possess great judgement, but I think the truth is, human judgement wavers wildly. Some of our judgments are based on gut, rebellion, compliance, politics… they are not always informed or “true”. But they are our judgements/ decisions nonetheless.
There is great truth in the saying that “everyone has their reasons.” It’s freedom and tragedy in one. A decision that is utterly perplexing to one person might well make sense to another for very compelling reasons. I am absorbed and intrigued by how different people make decisions. I’m curious as to how I myself make value judgements about other people. I still don’t have a “formula” for how I judge anybody (nor do I think I should - I don't believe life should be formulaic). While I might think I can read and understand a person, it is also important to understand that most people, in their public lives, "act", most of the time, so what you are seeing is a performance, of some description (most of the time).
This is a late night thread to an intricate philosophy… But if anyone cares to share their own thoughts on human judgement, I’m very keen to hear…
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Jive Talkin'
The Jackson Jive – Australia’s hottest new, racially intolerant touring ensemble…
I confess amazement at the furore that the “Jackson Jive” skit, performed on “Hey Hey its Saturday”, generated in international media. In keeping with this hysterical reaction, I’m throwing in my two cents.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zmaF7Pys7OI
My initial response, was that it was mildly amusing; due to, I suppose, the ridiculous presentation. My initial thoughts were not (consciously) “race”; I probably found it slightly more entertaining than several other “red faces” skits I’d wasted my life on over the years – which is not saying a huge amount...
When Harry Connick Jr, the guest judge, reacted the way he did, his remarks momentarily suspended my indolence and I reconsidered the act for a moment (through Harry’s eyes). I figure his objections were within reason and certainly somewhat courageous, on reflection.
The easy thing for him to do would be to toe the line, cringe through it and make a dull joke. But that’s not what he believed and so he stood up and said something. It’s bulltalk to say it was a publicity stunt. He was genuine and I admire him speaking his mind.
And then the whole affair became a media event. If this happened twenty years ago when this skit won red faces (which, is, I think, entirely possible had the “wrong person” been in the judge’s seat), I suspect the whole matter would have “contained” in the moment and any follow-on ruckus neutralised by the apologies that were offered at the time. This reveals the true star in this story – namely, viral video, and the way it perpetuates news in contemporary media.
Rather than bang on about the influence of video, and viral communication though, I’ll focus this blog on the hot issue, which is “blackface” and racism – in the context of an otherwise very innocent, benign skit.
There are good arguments on both sides.
The taboo behind “blackface” in a performance context, is an antiquated but significant symbol of an important resolution in race relations. It is fair to say it was most prominent / significant in America. You can learn more about it here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blackface
When you understand the tradition of “Blackface” a bit better, you can certainly see how the Jackson Jive’s little piece may be interpreted as the regressive resumption of a dead gimmick. And why Harry Connick Jr, raised in New Orleans, in the African-American jazz tradition with many of his close friends and colleagues African American performers - puckered.
There was absolutely nothing wrong with what Harry Connick Jr said – he was right of course, and his sensitivity is understandable. He felt it was out of order and he was true to his internal litmus. Aussie’s shouldn’t get so touchy just because someone expresses an opinion that may run against the common grain. That’s where we show our own immaturity.
However, there was nothing much wrong with the skit, in my view – for the reason that it lacked the necessary ingredients of intent and general awareness which I feel must distinguish racism from everyday insensitivity. It was a classic example of ignorance and misunderstanding.
In defence of the show, I would argue the vast majority of the Australian population has no reference point for the true political significance of this issue. To most, this was a pretty harmless little skit that did not say anything really controversial. That’s my personal view.
It’s also my view that this in itself evinces an embarrassing lack of education. Perhaps if more historical subject matter was taught at school level, it would be reasonable to argue that we should “know better”. I do believe that the amount of history taught at school level is deficient. Learning about the modern history of the world we live in is vital, for not only understanding our fellow man and the different paths nations have walked – but also, because it gives perspective.
Notwithstanding this, I studied history all through school and can’t ever recall bracing this particular issue…
My only personal awareness of “blackface” can be traced back to my remembering the decision to delete the “golliwog” character from Enid Blyton’s “Noddy” books – which I had read the print off as a tot. I remember when that decision was made in the 90’s thinking it was PC gone mad. Of course, “Golliwog” was a relic from the blackface tradition too, and it makes a bit more sense now, why they wanted to bury that character…
However, we do have to beware the political correctness illusion - particularly when it comes to comedy. It is vital we retain the ability to laugh at ourselves. Especially as Australians – we have much to laugh about, and we needn’t get so anxious for others to like us and our culture that we lose our sense of humour and can’t be criticised and jibed. Likewise the Americans, the Brits - everyone.
One of my favourite all time comics, is American, Don Rickles. Although commonly referred to as an “insult comic”, the tag is something of a misnomer, because there was a virtuosity in his venom. Check out his “roast” of Sammy Davis Jr here, for a sample:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XUcEQvU6LPE
In the context of this debate, this particular clip with Sammy Davis is very interesting.
It shows the great spirit this era of entertainers approached performance with and their great ability to laugh at themselves. A modern audience may be shocked at how “cutting” some of the humour was. But it was so very clever – and it was not malicious. It is so important we retain something of this. Skin colour and ethnicity is not important – which is the very reason it should be joked about – in the right spirit. Laughter and good humour is vital…
Other little observations of the Jive circus:
I noticed John Blackman, the V/O man and the best comedian in the “Hey Hey” outfit for mine, utters under his breath “uh – oh” almost as the act is introduced. A gut instinct that perfectly predicted the “sh1tstorm” to follow…
I think the timing of the skit in the wake of Jackson’s death may have been a trifling poor in taste, but in another way, it was these guys quirky expression of their love for the music…
Poor Jacki McDonald, the other co judge, was reluctant to even be involved in the show’s reunion and declined an earlier invitation. She has now found herself painted as the airy, “ignorant Australian”…
But finally, I would argue that one of the charming things about “Hey Hey…” is its “moments of purity”. It’s stumbles and its politically incorrect moments. There is vastly more patronising and offensive material on television than this. Satire and comedy is an important leveller and political correctness (PC) must be tempered, if not flattened, or we all run the risk of talkin’ nothing but jive.
I confess amazement at the furore that the “Jackson Jive” skit, performed on “Hey Hey its Saturday”, generated in international media. In keeping with this hysterical reaction, I’m throwing in my two cents.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zmaF7Pys7OI
My initial response, was that it was mildly amusing; due to, I suppose, the ridiculous presentation. My initial thoughts were not (consciously) “race”; I probably found it slightly more entertaining than several other “red faces” skits I’d wasted my life on over the years – which is not saying a huge amount...
When Harry Connick Jr, the guest judge, reacted the way he did, his remarks momentarily suspended my indolence and I reconsidered the act for a moment (through Harry’s eyes). I figure his objections were within reason and certainly somewhat courageous, on reflection.
The easy thing for him to do would be to toe the line, cringe through it and make a dull joke. But that’s not what he believed and so he stood up and said something. It’s bulltalk to say it was a publicity stunt. He was genuine and I admire him speaking his mind.
And then the whole affair became a media event. If this happened twenty years ago when this skit won red faces (which, is, I think, entirely possible had the “wrong person” been in the judge’s seat), I suspect the whole matter would have “contained” in the moment and any follow-on ruckus neutralised by the apologies that were offered at the time. This reveals the true star in this story – namely, viral video, and the way it perpetuates news in contemporary media.
Rather than bang on about the influence of video, and viral communication though, I’ll focus this blog on the hot issue, which is “blackface” and racism – in the context of an otherwise very innocent, benign skit.
There are good arguments on both sides.
The taboo behind “blackface” in a performance context, is an antiquated but significant symbol of an important resolution in race relations. It is fair to say it was most prominent / significant in America. You can learn more about it here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blackface
When you understand the tradition of “Blackface” a bit better, you can certainly see how the Jackson Jive’s little piece may be interpreted as the regressive resumption of a dead gimmick. And why Harry Connick Jr, raised in New Orleans, in the African-American jazz tradition with many of his close friends and colleagues African American performers - puckered.
There was absolutely nothing wrong with what Harry Connick Jr said – he was right of course, and his sensitivity is understandable. He felt it was out of order and he was true to his internal litmus. Aussie’s shouldn’t get so touchy just because someone expresses an opinion that may run against the common grain. That’s where we show our own immaturity.
However, there was nothing much wrong with the skit, in my view – for the reason that it lacked the necessary ingredients of intent and general awareness which I feel must distinguish racism from everyday insensitivity. It was a classic example of ignorance and misunderstanding.
In defence of the show, I would argue the vast majority of the Australian population has no reference point for the true political significance of this issue. To most, this was a pretty harmless little skit that did not say anything really controversial. That’s my personal view.
It’s also my view that this in itself evinces an embarrassing lack of education. Perhaps if more historical subject matter was taught at school level, it would be reasonable to argue that we should “know better”. I do believe that the amount of history taught at school level is deficient. Learning about the modern history of the world we live in is vital, for not only understanding our fellow man and the different paths nations have walked – but also, because it gives perspective.
Notwithstanding this, I studied history all through school and can’t ever recall bracing this particular issue…
My only personal awareness of “blackface” can be traced back to my remembering the decision to delete the “golliwog” character from Enid Blyton’s “Noddy” books – which I had read the print off as a tot. I remember when that decision was made in the 90’s thinking it was PC gone mad. Of course, “Golliwog” was a relic from the blackface tradition too, and it makes a bit more sense now, why they wanted to bury that character…
However, we do have to beware the political correctness illusion - particularly when it comes to comedy. It is vital we retain the ability to laugh at ourselves. Especially as Australians – we have much to laugh about, and we needn’t get so anxious for others to like us and our culture that we lose our sense of humour and can’t be criticised and jibed. Likewise the Americans, the Brits - everyone.
One of my favourite all time comics, is American, Don Rickles. Although commonly referred to as an “insult comic”, the tag is something of a misnomer, because there was a virtuosity in his venom. Check out his “roast” of Sammy Davis Jr here, for a sample:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XUcEQvU6LPE
In the context of this debate, this particular clip with Sammy Davis is very interesting.
It shows the great spirit this era of entertainers approached performance with and their great ability to laugh at themselves. A modern audience may be shocked at how “cutting” some of the humour was. But it was so very clever – and it was not malicious. It is so important we retain something of this. Skin colour and ethnicity is not important – which is the very reason it should be joked about – in the right spirit. Laughter and good humour is vital…
Other little observations of the Jive circus:
I noticed John Blackman, the V/O man and the best comedian in the “Hey Hey” outfit for mine, utters under his breath “uh – oh” almost as the act is introduced. A gut instinct that perfectly predicted the “sh1tstorm” to follow…
I think the timing of the skit in the wake of Jackson’s death may have been a trifling poor in taste, but in another way, it was these guys quirky expression of their love for the music…
Poor Jacki McDonald, the other co judge, was reluctant to even be involved in the show’s reunion and declined an earlier invitation. She has now found herself painted as the airy, “ignorant Australian”…
But finally, I would argue that one of the charming things about “Hey Hey…” is its “moments of purity”. It’s stumbles and its politically incorrect moments. There is vastly more patronising and offensive material on television than this. Satire and comedy is an important leveller and political correctness (PC) must be tempered, if not flattened, or we all run the risk of talkin’ nothing but jive.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
End of an Era? Definitely Maybe.
One of the first groups I got into as a pre-pubescent 12 year old, was Oasis. It fell somewhere between the outro of the “Definitely Maybe” album and the curtain call for “What’s the Story Moring Glory” – which really broke, in Australia, in 1996 - my first year in high school.
I was a big fan. Oasis was mega in 1996. It was almost a cliché, of course, to be a fan of Oasis in 1996...
Run forward several years and I find myself working with a band called “Royal Engineers”, which some of my good friends have formed. Great musicians and artists. They had an “oasis like” sound - which they got criticised for , frequently (and unreasonably, in my opinion).
Big, swarming guitars. Psychedelic in parts. And the rock n roll lifestyle and ethos to match… They were one of the better and more important rock bands to arrive in the Brisbane music scene circa 2004 / 2005 – without a doubt (in my biased view).
We listened to Oasis a lot through those lively years, too, of course…
The other week I heard Noel left Oasis and they broke up. Oasis have been producing awesome rock n roll (and great music for that matter), for a good while. I suppose it was time. I guess the natural thought is that Noel will come into his own and Liam may suffer. But who knows...
The important thing is the band's musical legacy - some great, GREAT, rock n roll.
I saw them in 2005, with some of the Royal Engineers, in fact. It was a very fun night.
“Definitely Maybe” is still one album I play all the time.
If I ever need a “lift” before a night out or something, I'll drop on “Definitely Maybe”. I'm still mad fer it.
I was a big fan. Oasis was mega in 1996. It was almost a cliché, of course, to be a fan of Oasis in 1996...
Run forward several years and I find myself working with a band called “Royal Engineers”, which some of my good friends have formed. Great musicians and artists. They had an “oasis like” sound - which they got criticised for , frequently (and unreasonably, in my opinion).
Big, swarming guitars. Psychedelic in parts. And the rock n roll lifestyle and ethos to match… They were one of the better and more important rock bands to arrive in the Brisbane music scene circa 2004 / 2005 – without a doubt (in my biased view).
We listened to Oasis a lot through those lively years, too, of course…
The other week I heard Noel left Oasis and they broke up. Oasis have been producing awesome rock n roll (and great music for that matter), for a good while. I suppose it was time. I guess the natural thought is that Noel will come into his own and Liam may suffer. But who knows...
The important thing is the band's musical legacy - some great, GREAT, rock n roll.
I saw them in 2005, with some of the Royal Engineers, in fact. It was a very fun night.
“Definitely Maybe” is still one album I play all the time.
If I ever need a “lift” before a night out or something, I'll drop on “Definitely Maybe”. I'm still mad fer it.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
From brothel to baby clinic
I regularly drive through the junction at Woolloongabba in Brisbane where Annerley Road intersects Stanley Street.
The Mater hospital occupies one corner. The Clarence Corner Hotel is on another. And an arcade of scummy, heritage façades housing all manner of zany establishments’ “tees the square”.
Sitting at the traffic lights you see the patients from the Mater stumble across as the alcoholics come out of the Clarence (at all hours), also stumbling, and an eclectic parade fumbles about for an “eclectic meal” in one of the beaten up diners…
Nestled amongst this “cluster” is an amusing example of irony as you are likely to find.
A building that, since time immemorial, housed strip joints and prior to that brothels, is now a baby clinic called “arrivals”.
Formerly “Bad Girls”, the boarded up, brooding, jet black walls have made way for full length windows and a “starched nappy” white paintjob.
The irony is never lost on me and I chuckle every time I go past it. Bob Dylan would call it a "simple twist of fate". Quite a nice one, I reckon...
The Mater hospital occupies one corner. The Clarence Corner Hotel is on another. And an arcade of scummy, heritage façades housing all manner of zany establishments’ “tees the square”.
Sitting at the traffic lights you see the patients from the Mater stumble across as the alcoholics come out of the Clarence (at all hours), also stumbling, and an eclectic parade fumbles about for an “eclectic meal” in one of the beaten up diners…
Nestled amongst this “cluster” is an amusing example of irony as you are likely to find.
A building that, since time immemorial, housed strip joints and prior to that brothels, is now a baby clinic called “arrivals”.
Formerly “Bad Girls”, the boarded up, brooding, jet black walls have made way for full length windows and a “starched nappy” white paintjob.
The irony is never lost on me and I chuckle every time I go past it. Bob Dylan would call it a "simple twist of fate". Quite a nice one, I reckon...
Monday, September 21, 2009
TECHNOLOGY AND TRAVEL
Brown eyed beauty is
daring to sail,
alight with the tide
and arrive with the mail,
elope with the slope
and return via rail,
circle the compass
on a mercury trail.
Send her my words on an infinite tablet,
receive back her vision, swift
"click"
and I'll have it.
daring to sail,
alight with the tide
and arrive with the mail,
elope with the slope
and return via rail,
circle the compass
on a mercury trail.
Send her my words on an infinite tablet,
receive back her vision, swift
"click"
and I'll have it.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Weekend at Finucan’s
A beach camping trip involving seventeen (count ‘em – 1 7 ) youngish lads is potentially a logistical, degenerate nightmare; but this one went off without a hitch. In fact, the word “seamless” is appropriate. Kudos to the planners.
The weekend was to “celebrate” one of our brood, whom we shall call “Finucan” – making a journey into married life in the coming months.
It was to be a long weekend – Friday through Monday. I couldn’t get there Friday arv, but several of the boys that did, gave it a solid nudge in Noosa that night, sampling a murder of local brews.
Apparently one of our tribe also made himself affectionately known to a couple of the local elders, who, given their age, may well have been traditional landowners. An Olympian effort.
I met the rest of the boys further south at the Etamogarah pub early on the Saturday morning where a game of paintball “skirmish” had been organised to get the trip underway.
The first thing I noticed on the walk into the skirmish gates, was that the standard of conversation had slipped very quickly. Rapid deterioration in conversation quality is a naturally occurring phenomenon on these kinds of “sabbaticals”, but I must confess to a degree of surprise at how rough it was, so early, having not yet pitched a tent.
Needless to say, the chat stayed at a pretty base level the whole trip…
I had never played skirmish before, but had more fun getting dressed up in army greens and running into the scrub to shoot paint bullets travelling at 300 feet / sec - than I thought I would.
It’s pretty damn amusing and you do get your warface on. Of course, we all got a decent caning and there was plenty of hail damage in the form of blue / yellow bruises and hickey like broken capillaries sprayed across our bodies at the end of it.
One of the guys looked like he had the worst ringworm infestation of all time…
After skirmish, we returned to Noosa where Finucan was asked to get dressed in his weekend attire – pink boots, purple top hat and lycra leotard.
After a princely lunch on buckets of KFC and tubes of coke, we loaded up the convoy, 6 fourbies in total, took the barge across the Noosa River and drove up the Northshore for about 15 clicks.
There’s a great feeling of freedom cruising up the beach in the car - it’s great fun. It’d been a few years since I’d last been over to the Northshore and I had forgotten what a great, rugged expanse of beach it is.
Camp was established with a minimum of fuss though three of our cars (including mine) initially missed the spot and went half a dozen k’s further up the beach than required. Nonetheless, a relaxing way to cruise through a Saturday afternoon.
One of the highlights of the Saturday night, apart from the company and the conversation of course, was the fire. In addition to the four heaving great bags of firewood we purchased earlier in the night, we managed to torch a pretty substantial amount of Northshore deadwood. The result was an awesome fire - one of the best I have ever been a part of…
Honourable mention must also be made of one of our greenthumb mates, who monitored and built the fire with sterling expertise.
Given the size and volume of some of the flora (dead of course - mostly...) being harvested from the dunes on a regular basis throughout the night, fears of soil erosion and sandslide were legitimate. However these were warmly soothed by the toasting blaze we had erupting in front of us.
One of the things that did become obvious that night was the discrepancy in musical tastes that has grown more defined as the years have rolled forward. So intolerant were we of each others choices in music, I conspired a drinking game where people had to guess songs and sing them. When this ran out of legs, we settled for passing the ipod on after every song for someone else’s selection...
I have always felt that camp fires are for sing-alongs so the ol' Don McLean classic “American Pie”, was my first choice. Never fails to bring a chorus of bad voices.
I'd left the pump for my air mattress at home, so subsequently spent a good hour at least, fireside, breathing hard into the bugger to get it sleepworthy. Blowing up the mattress had "taken the wind out of me", so I thought I would briefly test it - fireside.
With a few ales in my gullet slowly dissolving the fillet steak sandwich (cuisine for the weekend was exclusively carnivorous, with the exception of the “eggs” on the B & E rolls), an air of contentment overcame me and I drifted away.
The tranquility was not to last.
Ignoring the fact that many of our other crew had also “retired”, one of my intoxicated scumbag mates thought it a nice idea to start ripping my leg hairs out to stir me awake… It took several ripped “clumps”, before I realised what was happening. Awaking from a very pleasurable nap, to find someone going to town on the follicles on your calves with thumb and index finger is not a recipe for a pleasant reaction. I was not a happy camper.
“Steaming” is the right word in this case. And “steaming” is what we both almost were, as we briefly wrestled to within an inch of the inferno…
Following that little incident, I was wide awake again and ended up talking drivel into the wee hours with one of my old pals of South African lineage who has demonstrated legendarily consistent staying power at these kinds of gatherings over the years…
On the Sunday we got in the cars and went further up the beach to cut across inland to Double Island Point. This is truly a beautiful spot.
With the “coloured sands” running down towards Rainbow Beach, the scene resembles a giant orange cake crumbling into the ocean. Stretching up the other way, coffee rocks line the shoreline up to the headland.
Most of the guys swam out to Double Island to play touch footy, while five of us hopscotched along the rocky beach in one of the guy’s Landcruisers up toward the headland and did a little trek / rockclimb around its front. A highlight.
The break off this point is also pretty impressive. A longboarder nabbed a cushy 300 m ride while we were there.
About half of us, including yours truly, regrettably, had to return on the Sunday arv… (If only to cover the sizeable financial hit we all took to purchase the remainder of the 2009 inventory at the Diageo liquor company). By all reports, the survivors chalked up more good times on the Monday.
In sum, a great time had, more memories made, and Finucan’s march towards married life has been toasted appropriately.
I guess one of the standout things is that all seventeen of us on this trip were in the same senior year, at the same high school together. I think that’s pretty exceptional. It will be ten years since we finished next year and I think we all realise, and appreciate, how rare it is to have the bond that we do. We are all really quite different too, which makes it all the better.
Get togethers such as this happen with less frequency as the years burn through, but great friendships need little stoking anyway.
The weekend was to “celebrate” one of our brood, whom we shall call “Finucan” – making a journey into married life in the coming months.
It was to be a long weekend – Friday through Monday. I couldn’t get there Friday arv, but several of the boys that did, gave it a solid nudge in Noosa that night, sampling a murder of local brews.
Apparently one of our tribe also made himself affectionately known to a couple of the local elders, who, given their age, may well have been traditional landowners. An Olympian effort.
I met the rest of the boys further south at the Etamogarah pub early on the Saturday morning where a game of paintball “skirmish” had been organised to get the trip underway.
The first thing I noticed on the walk into the skirmish gates, was that the standard of conversation had slipped very quickly. Rapid deterioration in conversation quality is a naturally occurring phenomenon on these kinds of “sabbaticals”, but I must confess to a degree of surprise at how rough it was, so early, having not yet pitched a tent.
Needless to say, the chat stayed at a pretty base level the whole trip…
I had never played skirmish before, but had more fun getting dressed up in army greens and running into the scrub to shoot paint bullets travelling at 300 feet / sec - than I thought I would.
It’s pretty damn amusing and you do get your warface on. Of course, we all got a decent caning and there was plenty of hail damage in the form of blue / yellow bruises and hickey like broken capillaries sprayed across our bodies at the end of it.
One of the guys looked like he had the worst ringworm infestation of all time…
After skirmish, we returned to Noosa where Finucan was asked to get dressed in his weekend attire – pink boots, purple top hat and lycra leotard.
After a princely lunch on buckets of KFC and tubes of coke, we loaded up the convoy, 6 fourbies in total, took the barge across the Noosa River and drove up the Northshore for about 15 clicks.
There’s a great feeling of freedom cruising up the beach in the car - it’s great fun. It’d been a few years since I’d last been over to the Northshore and I had forgotten what a great, rugged expanse of beach it is.
Camp was established with a minimum of fuss though three of our cars (including mine) initially missed the spot and went half a dozen k’s further up the beach than required. Nonetheless, a relaxing way to cruise through a Saturday afternoon.
One of the highlights of the Saturday night, apart from the company and the conversation of course, was the fire. In addition to the four heaving great bags of firewood we purchased earlier in the night, we managed to torch a pretty substantial amount of Northshore deadwood. The result was an awesome fire - one of the best I have ever been a part of…
Honourable mention must also be made of one of our greenthumb mates, who monitored and built the fire with sterling expertise.
Given the size and volume of some of the flora (dead of course - mostly...) being harvested from the dunes on a regular basis throughout the night, fears of soil erosion and sandslide were legitimate. However these were warmly soothed by the toasting blaze we had erupting in front of us.
One of the things that did become obvious that night was the discrepancy in musical tastes that has grown more defined as the years have rolled forward. So intolerant were we of each others choices in music, I conspired a drinking game where people had to guess songs and sing them. When this ran out of legs, we settled for passing the ipod on after every song for someone else’s selection...
I have always felt that camp fires are for sing-alongs so the ol' Don McLean classic “American Pie”, was my first choice. Never fails to bring a chorus of bad voices.
I'd left the pump for my air mattress at home, so subsequently spent a good hour at least, fireside, breathing hard into the bugger to get it sleepworthy. Blowing up the mattress had "taken the wind out of me", so I thought I would briefly test it - fireside.
With a few ales in my gullet slowly dissolving the fillet steak sandwich (cuisine for the weekend was exclusively carnivorous, with the exception of the “eggs” on the B & E rolls), an air of contentment overcame me and I drifted away.
The tranquility was not to last.
Ignoring the fact that many of our other crew had also “retired”, one of my intoxicated scumbag mates thought it a nice idea to start ripping my leg hairs out to stir me awake… It took several ripped “clumps”, before I realised what was happening. Awaking from a very pleasurable nap, to find someone going to town on the follicles on your calves with thumb and index finger is not a recipe for a pleasant reaction. I was not a happy camper.
“Steaming” is the right word in this case. And “steaming” is what we both almost were, as we briefly wrestled to within an inch of the inferno…
Following that little incident, I was wide awake again and ended up talking drivel into the wee hours with one of my old pals of South African lineage who has demonstrated legendarily consistent staying power at these kinds of gatherings over the years…
On the Sunday we got in the cars and went further up the beach to cut across inland to Double Island Point. This is truly a beautiful spot.
With the “coloured sands” running down towards Rainbow Beach, the scene resembles a giant orange cake crumbling into the ocean. Stretching up the other way, coffee rocks line the shoreline up to the headland.
Most of the guys swam out to Double Island to play touch footy, while five of us hopscotched along the rocky beach in one of the guy’s Landcruisers up toward the headland and did a little trek / rockclimb around its front. A highlight.
The break off this point is also pretty impressive. A longboarder nabbed a cushy 300 m ride while we were there.
About half of us, including yours truly, regrettably, had to return on the Sunday arv… (If only to cover the sizeable financial hit we all took to purchase the remainder of the 2009 inventory at the Diageo liquor company). By all reports, the survivors chalked up more good times on the Monday.
In sum, a great time had, more memories made, and Finucan’s march towards married life has been toasted appropriately.
I guess one of the standout things is that all seventeen of us on this trip were in the same senior year, at the same high school together. I think that’s pretty exceptional. It will be ten years since we finished next year and I think we all realise, and appreciate, how rare it is to have the bond that we do. We are all really quite different too, which makes it all the better.
Get togethers such as this happen with less frequency as the years burn through, but great friendships need little stoking anyway.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Mum turns 50
My mum will turn 50 on Wednesday. In light of this, I thought I would dedicate this blog to her.
She is a bit of a wonderwoman my mum.
Generous, caring, intelligent, hardworking and giving to her family and those that come into her life - in an immense way. I owe her so much I feel like the "life debt" equivalent of Bernie Madoff...
We had a dinner party for mum last Fri night with family and wonderful friends. I gave a toast at that, so rather than try and write too much of something new, I have cut and pasted the notes I made for that toast... (If only for the reason that I found writing any notes about mum difficult in the first place). Like most of the speeches / addresses I have given in my life, this was bashed out at the 11th hour, in the half an hour before the party.
Words will always be insufficient in some contexts though (like these). Suffice to say I love my mum a great deal and think I struck absolute gold to be born to a mum such as mine. I hope I get to have her around for at least another 50.
A Toast to Mum
It’s a pleasure to be able to say a few words about mum on behalf of my brothers Andy and Robert.
Though I must preface by saying that it’s really hard to reduce to words the feelings I guess we all have towards our mums. It should be the easiest thing in the world but words like “grateful” really don’t cut it.
So despite staring into space for a long while thinking about words I could use to pay tribute to my mum, I will say just a few things.
Andy, Robert and I know we have a pretty amazing, special and unique mum.
And that knowledge is consistently affirmed by the many other people who know mum, many of whom are in the room tonight, who feel the same way about her, and regularly make comment to us about her.
In fact I have been receiving comments about mum my whole life.
I vividly recall the follow up from mum’s occasional visits to school to drop off a forgotten lunch, hat or shoe as the case may be, and being queried by students, and teachers, alike - right up until I left school in fact - as to whether mum was really my mum or my sister. When I gave them the answer this was invariably followed by a look of astonishment and various exclamations...
But mum’s youthful appearance has more to do with her genes than an easy lifestyle. Mum has an incredible work ethic and has achieved an enormous amount in her career, of which we as her sons are immensely proud. She has provided a great example in giving something your best.
What is most significant about Mum’s tireless efforts of course is that it has been selfless, in the name of giving the three of us every opportunity in life. She did from a young age, stress balance – the need to work hard and play hard and try not to mix the two – sage counsel – although she herself does not take as much time as she should, for herself.
One of the first things you notice about Mum is that she is a bit of a force of nature. She does move around the world - at pace.
Another thing that immediately strikes you about mum is her personality. Mum is a happy person, a vibrant and caring person and she immediately lifts a room and peoples spirits, just by being present.
Whether or not it is the country girl hangover or not, mum is forthcoming and conversational with everyone. And I mean everyone. She can start a topic with any person – and I mean, any person. And the conversation could go for hours. And I mean hours.
But as we know, this is one of mum’s charming qualities and she is without question immensely popular with many people, old and young, rich and poor, because of it.
Being a clean living, highly moral and modest person, there really are not too many dark secrets to drag out on a night like this. Mum does of course, have one or two quirks of character. Subtle quirks. I will list these in alphabetical order.
A.
No I won’t do that…
Mums flaws and quirks are in fact strengths.
She is an intense worrier about everyone and everything. Which simply reveals the fact that she cares about others. She is a sensitive person.
She is a prolific talker. I may have alluded to this earlier. As I have mentioned though, mum has a tremendous personality which is a reflection of a tremendous mind.
She is an incessant tea drinker. A plantation a year at least. I’m not sure what the redeeming feature of this vice is, but anti-oxidants spring to mind.
She also has one of the most prodigious collections of self-help books I have every encountered.
Which can only mean that she is closing in on complete enlightenment…
Really though mum, in the eyes of Andy, Rob and I you are flawless.
I once heard someone remark that people can choose to live their lives either as creators of opportunities for themselves and others and creators of happiness; or, as conquerors, people who diminish and dominate.
By this definition, mum is one of the great creative people I know. Always thinking of others – empathetic to the needs and feelings of those around her and exceptionally generous. Mum’s personal indulgences are very few - but I do hope she can enjoy a few more of these in the coming years.
None of the traditional clichés about turning 50 apply to you mum. You are young at heart, young in mind and in body. And I know that the best years are ahead.
Andy, Robert and I love you dearly and cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve done for us – and we wish you every happiness on this birthday.
Robert, in his absence, has also wanted to make the statement that he sincerely apologises for not being born of the fairer sex. He knows how much you wanted a daughter. He did say though that he will do his best to produce a daughter you can look after in retirement…
I would like to propose a toast – to you Mum and to the wonderful life you’ve lived so far and to the years ahead.
“To Christine”
She is a bit of a wonderwoman my mum.
Generous, caring, intelligent, hardworking and giving to her family and those that come into her life - in an immense way. I owe her so much I feel like the "life debt" equivalent of Bernie Madoff...
We had a dinner party for mum last Fri night with family and wonderful friends. I gave a toast at that, so rather than try and write too much of something new, I have cut and pasted the notes I made for that toast... (If only for the reason that I found writing any notes about mum difficult in the first place). Like most of the speeches / addresses I have given in my life, this was bashed out at the 11th hour, in the half an hour before the party.
Words will always be insufficient in some contexts though (like these). Suffice to say I love my mum a great deal and think I struck absolute gold to be born to a mum such as mine. I hope I get to have her around for at least another 50.
A Toast to Mum
It’s a pleasure to be able to say a few words about mum on behalf of my brothers Andy and Robert.
Though I must preface by saying that it’s really hard to reduce to words the feelings I guess we all have towards our mums. It should be the easiest thing in the world but words like “grateful” really don’t cut it.
So despite staring into space for a long while thinking about words I could use to pay tribute to my mum, I will say just a few things.
Andy, Robert and I know we have a pretty amazing, special and unique mum.
And that knowledge is consistently affirmed by the many other people who know mum, many of whom are in the room tonight, who feel the same way about her, and regularly make comment to us about her.
In fact I have been receiving comments about mum my whole life.
I vividly recall the follow up from mum’s occasional visits to school to drop off a forgotten lunch, hat or shoe as the case may be, and being queried by students, and teachers, alike - right up until I left school in fact - as to whether mum was really my mum or my sister. When I gave them the answer this was invariably followed by a look of astonishment and various exclamations...
But mum’s youthful appearance has more to do with her genes than an easy lifestyle. Mum has an incredible work ethic and has achieved an enormous amount in her career, of which we as her sons are immensely proud. She has provided a great example in giving something your best.
What is most significant about Mum’s tireless efforts of course is that it has been selfless, in the name of giving the three of us every opportunity in life. She did from a young age, stress balance – the need to work hard and play hard and try not to mix the two – sage counsel – although she herself does not take as much time as she should, for herself.
One of the first things you notice about Mum is that she is a bit of a force of nature. She does move around the world - at pace.
Another thing that immediately strikes you about mum is her personality. Mum is a happy person, a vibrant and caring person and she immediately lifts a room and peoples spirits, just by being present.
Whether or not it is the country girl hangover or not, mum is forthcoming and conversational with everyone. And I mean everyone. She can start a topic with any person – and I mean, any person. And the conversation could go for hours. And I mean hours.
But as we know, this is one of mum’s charming qualities and she is without question immensely popular with many people, old and young, rich and poor, because of it.
Being a clean living, highly moral and modest person, there really are not too many dark secrets to drag out on a night like this. Mum does of course, have one or two quirks of character. Subtle quirks. I will list these in alphabetical order.
A.
No I won’t do that…
Mums flaws and quirks are in fact strengths.
She is an intense worrier about everyone and everything. Which simply reveals the fact that she cares about others. She is a sensitive person.
She is a prolific talker. I may have alluded to this earlier. As I have mentioned though, mum has a tremendous personality which is a reflection of a tremendous mind.
She is an incessant tea drinker. A plantation a year at least. I’m not sure what the redeeming feature of this vice is, but anti-oxidants spring to mind.
She also has one of the most prodigious collections of self-help books I have every encountered.
Which can only mean that she is closing in on complete enlightenment…
Really though mum, in the eyes of Andy, Rob and I you are flawless.
I once heard someone remark that people can choose to live their lives either as creators of opportunities for themselves and others and creators of happiness; or, as conquerors, people who diminish and dominate.
By this definition, mum is one of the great creative people I know. Always thinking of others – empathetic to the needs and feelings of those around her and exceptionally generous. Mum’s personal indulgences are very few - but I do hope she can enjoy a few more of these in the coming years.
None of the traditional clichés about turning 50 apply to you mum. You are young at heart, young in mind and in body. And I know that the best years are ahead.
Andy, Robert and I love you dearly and cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve done for us – and we wish you every happiness on this birthday.
Robert, in his absence, has also wanted to make the statement that he sincerely apologises for not being born of the fairer sex. He knows how much you wanted a daughter. He did say though that he will do his best to produce a daughter you can look after in retirement…
I would like to propose a toast – to you Mum and to the wonderful life you’ve lived so far and to the years ahead.
“To Christine”
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
"Round Table"
Last week we shot 3 episodes for a new TV concept called “Round Table”, at the Visy theatre in the Powerhouse in Brisvegas.
The concept is to create “a dialogue on modern society” through the media of interview and music. This sounds a bit grandiose but the approach is minimalist. A simple idea produced with a high quality though raw aesthetic.
I've always felt that free-flowing, pure "interview" plays an important role in creating a social record.
It’s been a seven month slog to pull the right team together for this and the outcome was better than I had hoped. The team performed great and everything went really well. The guests were amazing and it was a privilege to be able to speak with them. Each brought their own compelling wisdoms, stories and experiences to the table with great spirit.
There is a very intimate atmosphere created in the Visy when you kill every light but your show lights and the guests let go a bit. I still had a lump in my throat two days after the event from all the adrenaline. Needless to say, it’s both exhilarating and taxing when the interviews come rapid fire, the way they did.
The next couple of months promise more hard work but much excitement on this front, as we further develop the concept.
The concept is to create “a dialogue on modern society” through the media of interview and music. This sounds a bit grandiose but the approach is minimalist. A simple idea produced with a high quality though raw aesthetic.
I've always felt that free-flowing, pure "interview" plays an important role in creating a social record.
It’s been a seven month slog to pull the right team together for this and the outcome was better than I had hoped. The team performed great and everything went really well. The guests were amazing and it was a privilege to be able to speak with them. Each brought their own compelling wisdoms, stories and experiences to the table with great spirit.
There is a very intimate atmosphere created in the Visy when you kill every light but your show lights and the guests let go a bit. I still had a lump in my throat two days after the event from all the adrenaline. Needless to say, it’s both exhilarating and taxing when the interviews come rapid fire, the way they did.
The next couple of months promise more hard work but much excitement on this front, as we further develop the concept.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
A Coffee with "The Texan"
The brazen murder of one of the last of Melbourne's infamous Moran clan a few weeks back in broad daylight provided more fodder for crime hungry media outlets.
On a personal level, I had attended the deli next door to the crime scene, about a month ago - so the visions were chilled with familiarity.
It seems Union Street in Ascot Vale is something of a meeting place for some of Australia's shadier figures... That day I had met with a chap nick-named "the Texan" - a somewhat fearsome figure of the legendarily maligned "painters and dockers" union and a central participant in the "dockland war" that raged during the 1960's and 70's - one of Australia's most violent conflicts. He is one of the only major players left alive from that "war".
I met with him, somewhat apprehensively, for the purpose of research - for some characterisation I was doing for a film screenplay I have been writing. I didn't have to, nor need to meet him - and had been reluctant to meet with any of the participants in events I have been studying as part of my writing, because my work is a "gonzo" styled piece - a fiction.
But I had been speaking with his biographer for a little while - she had authored a couple of interesting books - and I ultimately decided the story would be enhanced by meeting someone like "the Texan" to get a better sense of the atmosphere and attitude pervading that scene and how characters, such as he, and many that were to follow, "emerged". I was intrigued.
So after a telephone exchange, we met for a coffee in a Union street deli and spoke a little about his past for an hour or so. It was pretty enthralling to say the least. I will reserve my discoveries for my stories to follow, however...
As a man, "the texan" is full of contradictions. He has a penchant for ballroom dancing - it has been a lifelong passion. We spent quite a lot of time on this subject, actually; remarking, by turn, what a crying shame it is that there is not more of these kinds of events for young people, these days...
He was sharply intelligent. Very articulate - positively erudite, in fact. And yet he was all the while manipulative and controlling of the presentation of the facts. He had a smouldering cunning that lurked beneath a fairly casual yet imposing exterior. Notwithstanding, despite a physical presence, age has wearied him. He is now 83. And he clearly carries a weight of remorse on his shoulders.
Or maybe it was simply the hunch of a man who had spent 15 years in Pentridge prison. (Chopper Read made his name as his bodyguard during that time...)
The whole Ascot Vale strip is a pretty insipid little district. The delis are run down little joints populated by all manner of colourful types. You get the impression there is a lot of history in the humanity that congregates and mixes throughout its modest haunts.
I was interested to see when Des Moran was gunned down on the strip, that they turned to Chopper and the Texan for "expert commentary": http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,25647861-2862,00.html
It is a pretty curious situation. As a friend of mine remarked to me, "we remember the crims and not the goodies". Perhaps in Australia it has something to do with our convict roots - but it does seem like something of an omnipresent phenomenon. I have heard another explain the fascination with crime as a kind of perverted thrill - the freedom of living a life without any rules; that outlaws provide a vicarious vehicle for this type of escapism.
I asked "the texan" whether he regretted the life he had lived the better part of.
It was at that point that some of the veiled bravado was shelved. He said he'd wished none of it had happened... He said that he'd wished he had owned a small business or become a builder or something.
"But" he said, calmly,"some of us are born to walk down the shady side of the street."
On a personal level, I had attended the deli next door to the crime scene, about a month ago - so the visions were chilled with familiarity.
It seems Union Street in Ascot Vale is something of a meeting place for some of Australia's shadier figures... That day I had met with a chap nick-named "the Texan" - a somewhat fearsome figure of the legendarily maligned "painters and dockers" union and a central participant in the "dockland war" that raged during the 1960's and 70's - one of Australia's most violent conflicts. He is one of the only major players left alive from that "war".
I met with him, somewhat apprehensively, for the purpose of research - for some characterisation I was doing for a film screenplay I have been writing. I didn't have to, nor need to meet him - and had been reluctant to meet with any of the participants in events I have been studying as part of my writing, because my work is a "gonzo" styled piece - a fiction.
But I had been speaking with his biographer for a little while - she had authored a couple of interesting books - and I ultimately decided the story would be enhanced by meeting someone like "the Texan" to get a better sense of the atmosphere and attitude pervading that scene and how characters, such as he, and many that were to follow, "emerged". I was intrigued.
So after a telephone exchange, we met for a coffee in a Union street deli and spoke a little about his past for an hour or so. It was pretty enthralling to say the least. I will reserve my discoveries for my stories to follow, however...
As a man, "the texan" is full of contradictions. He has a penchant for ballroom dancing - it has been a lifelong passion. We spent quite a lot of time on this subject, actually; remarking, by turn, what a crying shame it is that there is not more of these kinds of events for young people, these days...
He was sharply intelligent. Very articulate - positively erudite, in fact. And yet he was all the while manipulative and controlling of the presentation of the facts. He had a smouldering cunning that lurked beneath a fairly casual yet imposing exterior. Notwithstanding, despite a physical presence, age has wearied him. He is now 83. And he clearly carries a weight of remorse on his shoulders.
Or maybe it was simply the hunch of a man who had spent 15 years in Pentridge prison. (Chopper Read made his name as his bodyguard during that time...)
The whole Ascot Vale strip is a pretty insipid little district. The delis are run down little joints populated by all manner of colourful types. You get the impression there is a lot of history in the humanity that congregates and mixes throughout its modest haunts.
I was interested to see when Des Moran was gunned down on the strip, that they turned to Chopper and the Texan for "expert commentary": http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,25647861-2862,00.html
It is a pretty curious situation. As a friend of mine remarked to me, "we remember the crims and not the goodies". Perhaps in Australia it has something to do with our convict roots - but it does seem like something of an omnipresent phenomenon. I have heard another explain the fascination with crime as a kind of perverted thrill - the freedom of living a life without any rules; that outlaws provide a vicarious vehicle for this type of escapism.
I asked "the texan" whether he regretted the life he had lived the better part of.
It was at that point that some of the veiled bravado was shelved. He said he'd wished none of it had happened... He said that he'd wished he had owned a small business or become a builder or something.
"But" he said, calmly,"some of us are born to walk down the shady side of the street."
Thursday, May 21, 2009
"The Art of Rugby"
[A slightly cropped version of the following article was published in last month's (May) edition of "Inside Sport" magazine under the title, "Ballymore Blues".]
As a young boy in the early nineties, my father purchased five year season tickets in the new “Eastern Stand” at Queensland’s home of rugby, Ballymore. They were great seats. Positioned on halfway and six rows from the front, they remained proximate enough to experience the bruising intimacy and pulsating elegance of the contest, whilst having enough elevation to scan the entirety of the pitch and absorb the unfolding spectacle of the eighty minute rhapsody.
Curiously, one indelible image left with me from the many memorable outings to those seats, was the catchphrase of a newspaper advertisement emblazoned across the awning of the “McLean Stand”, directly opposite. The words bludgeoned the panorama in red font and yet, quite apart from representing an advertising gimmick, for me, seemed to articulate the ethos, essence and the thrill of the game I loved and the sensation of watching rugby at Ballymore, during those years. It eloquently proclaimed, “The art of rugby is reading the play.”
The advertisement has long since been painted over and the slogan dropped. Indeed, in the year 2009, it seems the words “art” and “rugby” are not used in exchanges with perhaps the same verve or frequency as they were in days gone by. One wonders whether, in this day and age, “art” still has any place in rugby? Some may well ask whether it ever had a place. But given the resonance of those simple words in my own sentiments, I am sure it did.
The feted French impressionist painter, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, notably remarked that he hated the word “art” and if anyone had the right to be pretentious about art, it was Renoir. Perhaps more accurately however, is that Renoir hated the highfaluting context for which the word “art”, was reserved. For Renoir believed that any “act of making” was art and saw art in many things. I am convinced that if afforded the opportunity to experience the rugby played at Ballymore during those years, Renoir may well have marvelled at “the art of rugby” and the brave, mercurial “artists” employing their paintbox of skills to render vivid memories on the minds of the spectators present.
I will never forget the experience of attending my first test match at Ballymore - the 1991 Test between Australia and Wales. The pre game festivities included the typical Ballymore ritual of a get together with friends in the car park with food and drink flowing from the car boot. Once inside the stadium, the atmosphere was unlike anything I had previously tasted.
My family and I were seated in the forward rows of the McLean stand that day; on the aisle, right next to the tunnel onto the field. The Wallabies filed past to enter the gaudy cauldron, just inches away; their jersey’s radiating with a lustre not appreciated through television sets. A demolition of the Welsh ensued. A young John Eales made a notable debut. When skipper, Nick Farr-Jones left the field with injury, he unexpectedly turned and acknowledged my support as he hobbled towards the dressing sheds. The day was capped off when an actual piece of gold sleeve from a wallaby jersey found its way back to one of the people in our group and was passed on to me. Had it been sown of real gold thread, it would not have been cherished as much as that cloth was, by an eight year old boy.
I will never forget the epic tests of 1992 and 1993 at Ballymore against the All Blacks and Springboks, respectively. Probably the two finest live sport contests that I have had the privilege of being in audience for - games of such quality and intensity, which will, one would assume, never again be played in such overflowing and intimate surrounds.
It was an era of great personality players, with names such as Lynagh, Farr-Jones, Horan, Little, Kearns and Eales in their prime; and combatants such as Poidevin, Scott-Young, Tabua and Ofahengaue regularly doing battle. Of course, there were also the many memorable Queensland performances, most of which were victories. It was a marvellous era for Australian Rugby and I feel lucky to have experienced it, in such a vibrant environment, as a youngster.
There was something very special, unique and quintessentially “Queensland” about watching rugby at Ballymore. It had a different feel to anywhere else – a different character altogether (even when compared with the old Lang Park). With its sprawling, park like atmosphere, creek side position, big trees, barbecues, close grandstands and grassy hill, Ballymore seemed to encapsulate all that was great about the lifestyle of the state, watching sport and playing rugby in Queensland.
In reminiscing on the memories of yesteryear, of watching rugby as a boy, one is naturally led to juxtapose it with the present experience, in the modern era. For what lingers in my reverie, together with the memory of the many great games I watched, is the litany of little things about a day at the rugby, that perhaps I took for granted, but which are conspicuous in their absence, nowadays.
Things such as bustling by the fences for the final siren to sound to sprint onto the field and attempt to snatch a prized piece of maroon and white corner post… surrounding the players after the game for an autograph or simply to get alongside your heroes… taking a shot at goal off the same sand mound where Michael Lynagh had nailed a crucial kick from… crowding the dingy tunnel outside the dressing sheds for a rare chance to be ushered through by Chris “Buddah” Handy… lingering on into the evening to enjoy the camaraderie of other rugby followers… the list goes on.
The decision to move Queensland Reds games away from Ballymore to Suncorp Stadium, has been explained as necessary for “growing the game”. Administrators frequently reference rugby’s move to professionalism in the same breath. The reality is the choice has been regressive for the game. Further, the average fan does not care about professionalism. Such a justification merely leaves a supporter feeling cold and short changed. And without the supporters, professionalism is redundant. Naturally, this author is an ardent critic of the decision to move away from Ballymore – the spiritual home of Queensland rugby and a historical, world class provincial rugby ground that catered perfectly to the Reds. It appears to have been a mistake on a number of levels.
Despite being a magnificent facility, like many modern venues, Suncorp Stadium has a particular sterility about it, when it is less than two-thirds full. It lacks character. Moreover, it does not take an economist to grasp the psychological benefits for marketing the game and generating demand by utilising a stadium that can be filled or sold out. It is strategically much better than promoting a venue that is consistently one third full. Evidence suggests that the QRU balance sheets would have been vastly improved in recent years, had the Reds remained at Ballymore.
But quite apart from empirical data, attendances and economics, there are other, arguably more important reasons for not only going “back to Ballymore”, but for “going back” to all that went with Ballymore, our rich traditions and everything Queensland rugby was about. It seems evident that it is in “going back”, that Queensland Rugby may, finally, move forward.
Rugby fans want an occasion. Even if the home side is flailing, if a fan can go home and say that they have had a good experience, a pleasurable outing, in spite of the result, they will return. Happy fans can do a lot to build atmosphere and spirit. Spirit stokes the fire that manifests a “home ground advantage”; it binds a team in purpose and resolve; and spirit achieves results.
But rugby is about more than sheer results, too. It is about families, friends and fun – and this has been forgotten in the new era. Little has been done to make a trip to the rugby memorable in its new home and yet, the social component was what traditionally always distinguished a day at the rugby.
Late last year I attended the Queensland XV vs Australian Barbarians game, touted as the “Back to Ballymore” weekend. As I weaved through the back fields, I was delighted to see the old “boot parties” in full swing and people enjoying a rare (these days) Sunday afternoon game – it instantly brought a smile to my face which remained for the rest of the day…
As I parked, a gentleman of no less than ninety, in my estimation, gingerly got out of the car adjacent, wearing with pride, a somewhat tattered blue sports coat, resplendent with the famed Queensland Reds koala logo on its breast. He gave me a “thumbs up” in solidarity. As I strolled towards the gates, past the carpark revellers, I couldn’t help but feel it really was like “coming home”.
I was able to make my way to our great old former seats in the Eastern Stand, for old times sake. The game itself was a free flowing affair, punctuated by some scintillating tries. It underscored the potential of Queensland’s talent base. Irrefutably, Queensland remains one of the most imposing and prolific nurseries of rugby talent anywhere in the world (one need only look at the origins of the players in the current team sheets of all four Australian provinces).
Having been coached by Phil Mooney at Queensland U/19 level a few years back, I am also convinced that he is absolutely the man for the job and the perfect person to lead the new generation Reds. The real challenge lies in enlivening culture and energy around the game once more and it seems Ballymore must play a role in this.
It was a great surprise to hear the ground announcer state that there were only 5,000 people in attendance. The atmosphere was tremendous for such a small crowd and served as a reminder of what a great ground Ballymore was, for that very reason. Five thousand people would have been completely lost in the steel colosseum of Suncorp.
At full time, children streamed onto the field transforming it into a living mass of youthful vigour and joy. Everywhere I looked, people were smiling and laughing and enjoying themselves. The happiness these occasions bring to children cannot be underestimated. A young boy of nine on his first visit to the ground told me afterwards how “fun Ballymore was” and how it was “better than Suncorp”… Fans mingled with players after the game and people stayed – just like the old days. It was a sharp contrast to the rapid exodus seen during the Super 14, just a few months earlier.
The code in Queensland has been self defeating by ignoring the things that made it different and special. At a time when seemingly everything in society is becoming more scientific, homogenised and corporatized, the organic elements and the points of difference become ever more important; especially in the “brave new world” of professionalism. It’s these unique differences that may create advantages. In turning its back on these things, Queensland rugby has inadvertently compromised our performance out in “the middle”. A recreation of the unique spirit and culture of Queensland rugby may also go a long way to subduing that other modern phenomenon – the talent drain.
Another celebrated figure of rugby’s past, the bold statesman, Alan Jones, who guest coached the Barbarians, was also clearly enjoying the occasion. Jones, impeccably attired in camel coloured suit, remained on the field long after the siren talking with people and left little doubt as to his sentiments regarding Ballymore, art and rugby, when he remarked that Ballymore remained “an iconic theatre of rugby”.
One only hopes we see more virtuoso displays from talented performers in this great theatre once more. For truly, it felt like rugby again.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Birthday Parties I Have Thr(known)
After enduring a recent birthday which dropped me on the “right side” of 25, I gave pause to reflect on some of the birthday celebrations I had both hosted and attended over the years.
My first and perhaps most famous birthday party immediately sprang to mind… I have been to a few pretty “hair – raising” do's over the years, but NOTHING comes close to the cyclonic mayhem of my 7th.
I recall I had invited two girls, which was a sufficient quota to appease my mum; but not so many as to cop excessive grief and inflict damage to my status in the playground. I remember I had been insistent with my mum on this point.
The girls had gone to incredible lengths with their dresses and were exquisitely attired. So much so that after the formalities were exchanged and everyone had arrived, I tossed them each a faded rugby jersey with the recommendation that if they wanted to fit in and participate, they would “need to wear these.”
That party was my first exposure to and lesson in the “madness of crowds”: how one person’s mood can influence the person next to them, etcetera… Needless to say, what started as a controlled, polite, well behaved gathering of young children, proceeded to devolve into a hysterical swarm of manic, excessively sugared little brats, impervious to any and all directions and rules, running riot through our backyard and house.
Garden implements were dragged out of store rooms, old bikes and go karts and all manner of toys extracted, abused and strewn about the property - kids were running around completely out of their minds. Whilst I must claim responsibility, in part, for helping to orchestrate the frenzy that ensued, things got utterly out of hand and I quickly realised that a crowd can quickly develop a mind of its own. I was, ultimately, powerless to stop it…
For my mild mannered parents, it was a scene from hell.
But the party truly climaxed when my birthday cake was brought out. With much difficulty, the seething mass had been sedated- very briefly - but there was a palpable, bristling energy around the table. The cake had been specially made – in the form of a football, no less. It had cost $50, which back in the midst of the early nineties recession, was not small change.
After an ear splitting rendition of “Happy Birthday” and to the horror of my parents, I brought the curtains down on an unforgettable event with a swift “karate chop” that severed the football cake in two and rendered it inedible.
The party was over.
Needless to say, I received a belting and was told in no uncertain terms there would never be another birthday party…
As history was to prove, my folks were true to their word… for several years at least. Most of my parties during my school years from therein were “quiet family affairs”. I did attend some great ones though…
Post school I’ve had a few dos… I didn’t end up having an 18th. I’d hosted my entire senior year back to my house just a few months earlier on the last day of school – which was an incredible night – but was still cleaning bottle tops out of the gardens when my 18th ticked around, so I left it.
I did have an impromptu 20th at home on a weekend my parents went away. It turned into a big night. I have a recollection of playing a bunch of old disco vinyl LPs I'd found, all night. I’m also still cranky because I took a great roll of film at that party with my old favourite pentax slr (since stolen), but it was never wound on properly. Would have produced some nice memories...
I’d had designs on throwing a big party for my 21st, but strangely enough, when the time came, I couldn’t think of anything worse and scrapped all my plans to do so. I was in a bad mood at the time, but for whatever reason, I had become cynical about the whole idea and felt very self-conscious about being the centre of attention at such a thing. I guess I figured it was overly self indulgent and besides, there were so many 21sts on that year, one less would be a relief. I had fish and chips with three of my closest friends instead.
While the fish and chips option was good, I regret that decision now. And I have changed my thinking. I realise that birthday parties are bigger than the person celebrating the birthday. In fact, they are not really about the person celebrating them at all. They are a chance for the birthday boy or girl, to gather together and enjoy the company of the people that are most important to them and to thank them.
So sometime after that I made the decision to celebrate every subsequent birthday, in some way, in that spirit…
We hired some marquees and had a party at home for my 23rd. I remember my birthday fell on a Sunday night that year, so it was a pretty relaxed but fun night. Some of the artists I was working with at the time, Bobby Flynn as well as Dave Butler and John Pickering from the Quills, very generously played on a small stage I’d set up – which made the night especially memorable.
My first and perhaps most famous birthday party immediately sprang to mind… I have been to a few pretty “hair – raising” do's over the years, but NOTHING comes close to the cyclonic mayhem of my 7th.
I recall I had invited two girls, which was a sufficient quota to appease my mum; but not so many as to cop excessive grief and inflict damage to my status in the playground. I remember I had been insistent with my mum on this point.
The girls had gone to incredible lengths with their dresses and were exquisitely attired. So much so that after the formalities were exchanged and everyone had arrived, I tossed them each a faded rugby jersey with the recommendation that if they wanted to fit in and participate, they would “need to wear these.”
That party was my first exposure to and lesson in the “madness of crowds”: how one person’s mood can influence the person next to them, etcetera… Needless to say, what started as a controlled, polite, well behaved gathering of young children, proceeded to devolve into a hysterical swarm of manic, excessively sugared little brats, impervious to any and all directions and rules, running riot through our backyard and house.
Garden implements were dragged out of store rooms, old bikes and go karts and all manner of toys extracted, abused and strewn about the property - kids were running around completely out of their minds. Whilst I must claim responsibility, in part, for helping to orchestrate the frenzy that ensued, things got utterly out of hand and I quickly realised that a crowd can quickly develop a mind of its own. I was, ultimately, powerless to stop it…
For my mild mannered parents, it was a scene from hell.
But the party truly climaxed when my birthday cake was brought out. With much difficulty, the seething mass had been sedated- very briefly - but there was a palpable, bristling energy around the table. The cake had been specially made – in the form of a football, no less. It had cost $50, which back in the midst of the early nineties recession, was not small change.
After an ear splitting rendition of “Happy Birthday” and to the horror of my parents, I brought the curtains down on an unforgettable event with a swift “karate chop” that severed the football cake in two and rendered it inedible.
The party was over.
Needless to say, I received a belting and was told in no uncertain terms there would never be another birthday party…
As history was to prove, my folks were true to their word… for several years at least. Most of my parties during my school years from therein were “quiet family affairs”. I did attend some great ones though…
Post school I’ve had a few dos… I didn’t end up having an 18th. I’d hosted my entire senior year back to my house just a few months earlier on the last day of school – which was an incredible night – but was still cleaning bottle tops out of the gardens when my 18th ticked around, so I left it.
I did have an impromptu 20th at home on a weekend my parents went away. It turned into a big night. I have a recollection of playing a bunch of old disco vinyl LPs I'd found, all night. I’m also still cranky because I took a great roll of film at that party with my old favourite pentax slr (since stolen), but it was never wound on properly. Would have produced some nice memories...
I’d had designs on throwing a big party for my 21st, but strangely enough, when the time came, I couldn’t think of anything worse and scrapped all my plans to do so. I was in a bad mood at the time, but for whatever reason, I had become cynical about the whole idea and felt very self-conscious about being the centre of attention at such a thing. I guess I figured it was overly self indulgent and besides, there were so many 21sts on that year, one less would be a relief. I had fish and chips with three of my closest friends instead.
While the fish and chips option was good, I regret that decision now. And I have changed my thinking. I realise that birthday parties are bigger than the person celebrating the birthday. In fact, they are not really about the person celebrating them at all. They are a chance for the birthday boy or girl, to gather together and enjoy the company of the people that are most important to them and to thank them.
So sometime after that I made the decision to celebrate every subsequent birthday, in some way, in that spirit…
We hired some marquees and had a party at home for my 23rd. I remember my birthday fell on a Sunday night that year, so it was a pretty relaxed but fun night. Some of the artists I was working with at the time, Bobby Flynn as well as Dave Butler and John Pickering from the Quills, very generously played on a small stage I’d set up – which made the night especially memorable.
Last year, for my 25th, I chartered a beautiful old 72 foot Norman Wright timber bay-cruiser boat and took 12 of my closest pals out for a weekend in Moreton Bay. Everyone knocked off early on the Friday afternoon and we set off from a mate’s place on the Brissy River for a few days. I am a bit of a boatie and love the ocean, so pottering around Moreton Bay on a comfortable boat with a bunch of your best mates was probably my idea of the perfect birthday.
There were some very funny stories from that trip – most I won’t mention - but a couple of highlights included a simple “cheers” that escalated and saw no less than a carton of beer dissolved in spray in the space of about 20 seconds on the back deck… and a 3am “call” on our “24 hour chef”, Fiona, to cook a few late night survivors a few snags… A fun trip.
This year I did a trip to Melbourne to visit a bunch of my close friends now living down there which was also a great time.
I said in my first sentence that my recent birthday has dropped me on the right side of 25. I actually believe this – it is not just blind positivity or some denial or delusion.
In my own experience and in my own observations of others around my age, I feel as though the early 20’s are, undoubtedly, at times very fun and sometimes wild, in the best most joyous way. But they can also be trying. You are dealt some life lessons that force you to take heed and that is not always pleasant. It is also, from what I have seen and experienced at least, a searching time.
I think post 25 you are much surer of yourself, your strengths and weaknesses and your place in the world. And therein lies the most exciting part. Because it brings a freedom to stop fighting against yourself and any of the other extraneous stuff young people are hit with; and really go for it.
That’s how I feel about it anyway.
Birthday celebrations always make you think about the best things in your life and for me that always revolves around the people in my life. I’m lucky to have such wonderful friends and family.
And so in the spirit of this blog and my recent birthday, I send out some love to my brilliant friends and amazing family - all my dear ones - through this cyber contraption. Thanks for everything!
Friday, April 3, 2009
Head in the Clouds
I attended the opening of the new “Cloudland” venue in Fortitude Valley in Brisbane last Thursday night.
I was there in a professional capacity, for the early part of the night, with a colleague of mine (and his camera) to film footage for a documentary film project. The party itself was exciting and interesting. An eclectic pastiche resplendent with plenty of posturing and posing – as you would expect at such a function – with plenty of well known faces flown in from around the country; which all made for good film. I did a lot of crowd watching – the demographic was varied and intriguing and there were plenty of characters in the room. But invariably the lens (both the camera’s and my own) turned to the walls, the floors, the lights, the plants, the water features, the bars…
When I finished filming, I hung out for a while. I had some great conversations with a variety of different people. All manner of seating areas appear to open out of walls, nooks and shadows and materialise everywhere you look – spaces that maintain the kind of privacy and intimacy that lends itself to good conversation. This really impressed me; if only because it is sorely missing in so many other venues in Brisbane.
Highlights, of course, include the retractable roof – it’s a “cool” space with plenty of ventilation and air – the planting, gives the whole place a real organic “life” and different feel and is an expression of great detail and magnitude in itself; the shape of the verandahs, and the cascading water against the glass frontispiece… but these are just the obvious things… each part of the place has a different character. I liked some areas more than others. But it is the detail that amazes.
Some of the design is astonishing and catches you by surprise. Some of the features jog reference points in your imagination and memory. It’s like leaping into a chalk drawing from Mary Poppins or something strange like that; or having a scene from your childhood suddenly spring to life. To this end, you can immerse yourself in the surroundings, which is unusual for any niteclub space - but utterly refreshing. I had become so bored with most of the nitespots in Brisbane. Cloudland changes things.
We have a number of good café/bars and restaurants scattered across town, but I’d curbed going out to “clubs” in Bris because too many had become dispensation centres for alcohol and little else. Sterile boxes with no atmosphere that were just inebriation centres. This place is much more.
The music was at a good level for what the venue aspires to. It’s not a purpose designed live music space, but does cabaret style vocalisations against backing DJ music very effectively, as was demonstrated amply on the night. I can see this being a distinguishing feature of the entertainment. But I can see so many options and potentialities for the room. It blows my mind slightly.
Some of us Brisbanites get blasé and dismissive (even turned off) about “The Valley”, after having lived here for a while. In truth, it is a pretty amazing cultural hub. There are all kinds of interesting inspirations and relics littered through it – something of everything – a true melting pot. The mall still harbours the post modern remnants that stretch back to the area’s seedier, grittier era. And the energy and subsequent humanity this clash of influences draws is very unusual – I know many international visitors are quickly enthralled by this… But now the area has a truly beautiful space that is up there with the best of them, too…
Of course, it is a travesty that the original Cloudland ballroom is not still around. I have often thought how wonderful it would be if we did still have an inner city space like that - particularly for the purposes of concert and event promotion. We have an uncanny knack in this city of destroying the best examples of our architecture and culturally significant buildings – whether they be public facilities like the old Cloudland, most of the Regent Theatre, the Her Majesty’s etc. – or indeed, residential properties constructed in the mid twentieth century that were very progressive and defining.
But the new Cloudland is a wonderful step in the right direction – the Katarzyna Group should be commended for going to the (significant) effort and expense to design and build such a room. It does live up to the promise of being an “urban oasis” – it does have an otherworldly ambience about it and it deserves to be embraced.
As I walked out of the venue and into the cool night air, quite a bit later (earlier) than I had planned, my head was still in the clouds. I look forward to another visit soon.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
A Sweet and Juicy Story
Last year a friend challenged me to a game of “force ‘em backs”. For those unacquainted with this marvellous game, it essentially involves a “kicking duel”, with a standard rugby ball. You play on a regular rugby field and attempt to “out kick” your opponent with superior punting force and strategic nous.
My friend had been undertaking regular skirmishes with the ol’ pig skin and was provocative in his challenge. Whilst I did not have too much Intel on this chap’s ability, I did suspect he would be a willing competitor. But I was quietly amused at his gusto; and quietly assured in my own chances. Back in my “heyday” I could get around 70 meters of in-air mileage and had once, at age fourteen, out-punted a professional AFL player (speaking modestly of course…) Admittedly, my heyday was a little while ago and I had not put boot to ball for many moons – but I was confident I would make short work of this pretender. So I gleefully accepted.
And so, a date was set for the showdown, with the rendez vous confirmed to take place at New Farm Park – at the crack of dawn, no less (or at least, close enough to – 7am).
The night before the standoff I tossed and turned with turgid restlessness (more at agreeing to lace up a boot at 7am than at the prospect of getting my pride dented) as a steady rain poured down throughout the night…
Morning arrived with the shrill alarm of my phone, as though the previous day had never left and I fumbled around in the dark for a few layers of clothing to protect myself from the rainy European conditions outside – which had finally descended on Brisbane after months of drought. Hence, with cobwebbed boots in hand, I made my way to the car and to the weary drone of wiper blades, drove towards the battleground - yawning with enthusiasm…
Arriving at the crime scene, it was as though a scene from the film, Vanilla Sky had materialised. There was not a soul around. Not even the hard core joggers had subjected themselves to the blustery, cold and unpleasant conditions. But here I was. Standing car side with eyelids at half mast, rugby socks pulled up tight, beneath tracky dacks. Ready to do battle.
Off in the distance, through the rain haze, I saw a lanky, beaney clad figure, ambulating in a confused pattern. Surely this couldn’t be my competitor? He resembled one of New Farm’s less fortunate, rather than a willing contender for the crown of “golden boot” (Who wears a beaney to a fight, anyway?).
As I got closer, my suspicions were confirmed and we shook hands in a jovial manner – quickly diverting our attentions to the unfortunate weather and joking that “this will be fun”. In truth, there was nothing fun about it. This was business.
It was at this point that my sparring partner threw a healthy handful of spice into the mix, by producing his weapon of choice. An elongated prune of a thing… A league ball. Wearing a broad grin, he stood there expectantly as if nothing were out of order. I’m sure he’d had this trick planned for weeks…
Some ignoramuses out there may guffaw at this – but make no mistake – there are a number of telling differences between a league ball and a rugby (union) ball that can substantially influence proceedings. For any female readers out there (hopefully one or two), it is like comparing a finely cut diamond with a hacked up cubic zirconia. The best jewellers simply don’t deal with such cheap imitations…
When it comes to footballs, the weight is different, the material is different (inferior quality) and most importantly, the shape is different. Hundreds of thousands of repetitions kicking a rugby ball as a developing child had seen my foot evolve a curvature perfectly mated to the arc of the only true football. Under these changed conditions, no longer were my instincts sufficient – I had to conscientiously consider how I attacked this deformed pill.
To add insult to injury, it had a filthy league logo bruised onto its flank.
Sensing my displeasure, my friend asked me whether I was happy to continue. Knowing that a good craftsman never blames his tools, I let rip a composed grin and may have even asked whether he wanted me to use my left boot… And thus, the stage was set.
As a further act of dismissal of this chump’s sneaky manoeuvre, I additionally volunteered to kick “into the wind”, first (replace “wind” with “gale” - it had to have been teetering around the 40 knot mark). The drizzle was now blowing in sideways, stinging me awake as a wet perch would, being slapped about your chops. I looked down at the awkward shaped object in my hands and contemplated how best to open the exchange…
I decided to go in guns blazing - and skied a towering torpedo - then watched… mournfully… as the ball shot ahead 25 meters like a bat out of hell, twirled upright on its vertical axis and simply floated; as if in a state of suspended animation… before softly descending, like a downy feather and landing sweetly in my challenger’s “bread basket”. The moment my disappointing effort had been served up on a silver platter, my rival exploded off the mark like a stunned deer – no, a rabid springbok - bounding with giant steps to take his free meters (awarded for taking a clean catch) and in the one movement, rifled a low trajectory bullet of a kick into the corner - sending me clamouring backwards in shock and powering through puddles in a desperate bid to stop its destined journey towards the goal line.
It was in that moment of squelching at pace across a deserted New Farm Park, chasing a runaway league ball, at 7.15 on a cold, rainy morning, that I realised: it really had been a while since I’d played this… My colleague was more hip to the strategy than I was – and I was “under the pump”, from the get go.
And so I spent the first half hour of our “game” on the back foot and defending. Sneaking a good kick here and there, but otherwise torridly scrapping for my own respectability, battling the elements, pinned in my goal area. He was no slouch - and finally, the breakthrough came, as a well timed strike whistled past my defences. 1 nil to the Leaguey.
Exhausted, I made my way back to half way to change ends and attempt to redeem myself. I was looking down the barrel of a humiliation. All my old memories of force 'em backs were of a few well placed “torps” and a gentle trot back to halfway in preparation for my next goal. This was a different ball game… However, the forces of nature were with me now. Thankfully, I regained some respect. 1 all and another end change.
What ensued over the remainder of the hour we were out there was like something out of the crusades – ruthless and bloody. For what seemed like an eternity we exchanged blows. New Farm Park echoed with a series of pained grunts and guttural groans befitting a colosseum. Both of us threw everything we had at it. Adroit chips, touch finders, rangy bananas, “puddle skimmers”, drop punts etc etc - all the while sprinting around the sopping wet park like madmen, putting our bodies on the line to take a “clean catch”. Frustration boiled over once or twice. I cursed a bit – I’d always been coached that this was a sign of weakness, revealed to your opposition- but I couldn’t help it. I cursed some more. And ultimately, I succumbed again. 2 – 1, against.
It was at this point that my “friend” hobbled over clutching at his ribcage. I was hunched over in a foetal position nursing a back injury. He dropped the crappy ball by my aching body and mouthed two words : “Your reply.” We then looked at each other with bloodshot eyes through mud-laced lashes and, without saying a word, made the mutual decision to adjourn the battle. Declining a breakfast invitation, I rolled my weary bag of bones into my car and shot away for the sanctuary of a warm shower…
The true violence of the contest came to its full realisation on a physio’s bench a few days later…
I had a bulging disc in my vertebrae and would not be able to do anything for about six weeks. Indeed I walked about like the hunchback of Notre Dame for the three weeks following, unable to straighten up, nor even walk, without considerable pain.
The only consolation was that my opponent had not fared much better… He had ruptured the cartilage in his rib cage and sternum during the ferocious bout and would be incapacitated for the same period of time.
So in summary, the title to this blog is a misnomer. Clearly, there is nothing particularly sweet, nor juicy, about this story. It’s simply a charming tale about a pair of crippled force ‘em backs adversaries.
Your maths would indicate that my opponent presently holds a 2-1 lead. But this is far from a victory, folks. Indeed, it is far from over. It is merely half-time. It may even be quarter time… I have simply been waiting for my spinal injury to heal sufficiently so as to continue.
However, my foe, sensing imminent threat, has in the interim (like a cowardly dog senses danger), cowered off to Adelaide – presumably hoping to quit while he is ahead. I’m guessing he believes no-one would wish to follow him there. But he is sorely mistaken… If I need to get on a plane to settle this, I will. Not even the city of churches will throw me. And this time, I am bringing the ball…
My friend had been undertaking regular skirmishes with the ol’ pig skin and was provocative in his challenge. Whilst I did not have too much Intel on this chap’s ability, I did suspect he would be a willing competitor. But I was quietly amused at his gusto; and quietly assured in my own chances. Back in my “heyday” I could get around 70 meters of in-air mileage and had once, at age fourteen, out-punted a professional AFL player (speaking modestly of course…) Admittedly, my heyday was a little while ago and I had not put boot to ball for many moons – but I was confident I would make short work of this pretender. So I gleefully accepted.
And so, a date was set for the showdown, with the rendez vous confirmed to take place at New Farm Park – at the crack of dawn, no less (or at least, close enough to – 7am).
The night before the standoff I tossed and turned with turgid restlessness (more at agreeing to lace up a boot at 7am than at the prospect of getting my pride dented) as a steady rain poured down throughout the night…
Morning arrived with the shrill alarm of my phone, as though the previous day had never left and I fumbled around in the dark for a few layers of clothing to protect myself from the rainy European conditions outside – which had finally descended on Brisbane after months of drought. Hence, with cobwebbed boots in hand, I made my way to the car and to the weary drone of wiper blades, drove towards the battleground - yawning with enthusiasm…
Arriving at the crime scene, it was as though a scene from the film, Vanilla Sky had materialised. There was not a soul around. Not even the hard core joggers had subjected themselves to the blustery, cold and unpleasant conditions. But here I was. Standing car side with eyelids at half mast, rugby socks pulled up tight, beneath tracky dacks. Ready to do battle.
Off in the distance, through the rain haze, I saw a lanky, beaney clad figure, ambulating in a confused pattern. Surely this couldn’t be my competitor? He resembled one of New Farm’s less fortunate, rather than a willing contender for the crown of “golden boot” (Who wears a beaney to a fight, anyway?).
As I got closer, my suspicions were confirmed and we shook hands in a jovial manner – quickly diverting our attentions to the unfortunate weather and joking that “this will be fun”. In truth, there was nothing fun about it. This was business.
It was at this point that my sparring partner threw a healthy handful of spice into the mix, by producing his weapon of choice. An elongated prune of a thing… A league ball. Wearing a broad grin, he stood there expectantly as if nothing were out of order. I’m sure he’d had this trick planned for weeks…
Some ignoramuses out there may guffaw at this – but make no mistake – there are a number of telling differences between a league ball and a rugby (union) ball that can substantially influence proceedings. For any female readers out there (hopefully one or two), it is like comparing a finely cut diamond with a hacked up cubic zirconia. The best jewellers simply don’t deal with such cheap imitations…
When it comes to footballs, the weight is different, the material is different (inferior quality) and most importantly, the shape is different. Hundreds of thousands of repetitions kicking a rugby ball as a developing child had seen my foot evolve a curvature perfectly mated to the arc of the only true football. Under these changed conditions, no longer were my instincts sufficient – I had to conscientiously consider how I attacked this deformed pill.
To add insult to injury, it had a filthy league logo bruised onto its flank.
Sensing my displeasure, my friend asked me whether I was happy to continue. Knowing that a good craftsman never blames his tools, I let rip a composed grin and may have even asked whether he wanted me to use my left boot… And thus, the stage was set.
As a further act of dismissal of this chump’s sneaky manoeuvre, I additionally volunteered to kick “into the wind”, first (replace “wind” with “gale” - it had to have been teetering around the 40 knot mark). The drizzle was now blowing in sideways, stinging me awake as a wet perch would, being slapped about your chops. I looked down at the awkward shaped object in my hands and contemplated how best to open the exchange…
I decided to go in guns blazing - and skied a towering torpedo - then watched… mournfully… as the ball shot ahead 25 meters like a bat out of hell, twirled upright on its vertical axis and simply floated; as if in a state of suspended animation… before softly descending, like a downy feather and landing sweetly in my challenger’s “bread basket”. The moment my disappointing effort had been served up on a silver platter, my rival exploded off the mark like a stunned deer – no, a rabid springbok - bounding with giant steps to take his free meters (awarded for taking a clean catch) and in the one movement, rifled a low trajectory bullet of a kick into the corner - sending me clamouring backwards in shock and powering through puddles in a desperate bid to stop its destined journey towards the goal line.
It was in that moment of squelching at pace across a deserted New Farm Park, chasing a runaway league ball, at 7.15 on a cold, rainy morning, that I realised: it really had been a while since I’d played this… My colleague was more hip to the strategy than I was – and I was “under the pump”, from the get go.
And so I spent the first half hour of our “game” on the back foot and defending. Sneaking a good kick here and there, but otherwise torridly scrapping for my own respectability, battling the elements, pinned in my goal area. He was no slouch - and finally, the breakthrough came, as a well timed strike whistled past my defences. 1 nil to the Leaguey.
Exhausted, I made my way back to half way to change ends and attempt to redeem myself. I was looking down the barrel of a humiliation. All my old memories of force 'em backs were of a few well placed “torps” and a gentle trot back to halfway in preparation for my next goal. This was a different ball game… However, the forces of nature were with me now. Thankfully, I regained some respect. 1 all and another end change.
What ensued over the remainder of the hour we were out there was like something out of the crusades – ruthless and bloody. For what seemed like an eternity we exchanged blows. New Farm Park echoed with a series of pained grunts and guttural groans befitting a colosseum. Both of us threw everything we had at it. Adroit chips, touch finders, rangy bananas, “puddle skimmers”, drop punts etc etc - all the while sprinting around the sopping wet park like madmen, putting our bodies on the line to take a “clean catch”. Frustration boiled over once or twice. I cursed a bit – I’d always been coached that this was a sign of weakness, revealed to your opposition- but I couldn’t help it. I cursed some more. And ultimately, I succumbed again. 2 – 1, against.
It was at this point that my “friend” hobbled over clutching at his ribcage. I was hunched over in a foetal position nursing a back injury. He dropped the crappy ball by my aching body and mouthed two words : “Your reply.” We then looked at each other with bloodshot eyes through mud-laced lashes and, without saying a word, made the mutual decision to adjourn the battle. Declining a breakfast invitation, I rolled my weary bag of bones into my car and shot away for the sanctuary of a warm shower…
The true violence of the contest came to its full realisation on a physio’s bench a few days later…
I had a bulging disc in my vertebrae and would not be able to do anything for about six weeks. Indeed I walked about like the hunchback of Notre Dame for the three weeks following, unable to straighten up, nor even walk, without considerable pain.
The only consolation was that my opponent had not fared much better… He had ruptured the cartilage in his rib cage and sternum during the ferocious bout and would be incapacitated for the same period of time.
So in summary, the title to this blog is a misnomer. Clearly, there is nothing particularly sweet, nor juicy, about this story. It’s simply a charming tale about a pair of crippled force ‘em backs adversaries.
Your maths would indicate that my opponent presently holds a 2-1 lead. But this is far from a victory, folks. Indeed, it is far from over. It is merely half-time. It may even be quarter time… I have simply been waiting for my spinal injury to heal sufficiently so as to continue.
However, my foe, sensing imminent threat, has in the interim (like a cowardly dog senses danger), cowered off to Adelaide – presumably hoping to quit while he is ahead. I’m guessing he believes no-one would wish to follow him there. But he is sorely mistaken… If I need to get on a plane to settle this, I will. Not even the city of churches will throw me. And this time, I am bringing the ball…
Monday, March 16, 2009
Another Day
Today was another day. Another day of being alive and young and possessed of my physical strength, my mental faculties and my health. And so, it was a great day.
I attended the memorial service of a friend, Scott, today. Scott tragically went missing in a Japanese ski resort in late February. He has still not been located; indeed, no evidence has been turned up, whatsoever. Scott's disappearance at age 27 is a great loss for those close to him but also to the world. Scott served his dreams with an inspiringly impressive vigour and energy. He was an accomplished fellow. I particularly admired the way he was "intense to live" - the way he really gripped on to every minute and pushed himself - driven by an inner tenacity and love for life. And so, despite the very premature and saddening loss, Scott's was a life well lived. His life and passing reminds all of us young, capable people, that we must savour every moment and "live them out", with passionate immediacy.
This is my first formal blog. I started one on myspace when I was working in music and the format was hot, a few years ago. But this one I intend to commit to. I hope to write about a range of things and keep it interesting. Writing has been a lifelong passion but now it is a career as well - which is very exciting.
I have titled this blog "the Lake District" - for now. I want to start a website with this same moniker, which may serve as a melting pot / online collaboration place for writers and artists. It borrows from the so called "Lake District" in England - a beautiful area which was home to the "lake poets" for several years - Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey - who were connected to the Romantic Movement at the turn of the 19th Century. Incidentally, they are among my favourites... I hope to one day visit the Lake District and regard its splendour over a drink with my old mucker, Professor Darryl E. Frame...
Thank you for reading.
I attended the memorial service of a friend, Scott, today. Scott tragically went missing in a Japanese ski resort in late February. He has still not been located; indeed, no evidence has been turned up, whatsoever. Scott's disappearance at age 27 is a great loss for those close to him but also to the world. Scott served his dreams with an inspiringly impressive vigour and energy. He was an accomplished fellow. I particularly admired the way he was "intense to live" - the way he really gripped on to every minute and pushed himself - driven by an inner tenacity and love for life. And so, despite the very premature and saddening loss, Scott's was a life well lived. His life and passing reminds all of us young, capable people, that we must savour every moment and "live them out", with passionate immediacy.
This is my first formal blog. I started one on myspace when I was working in music and the format was hot, a few years ago. But this one I intend to commit to. I hope to write about a range of things and keep it interesting. Writing has been a lifelong passion but now it is a career as well - which is very exciting.
I have titled this blog "the Lake District" - for now. I want to start a website with this same moniker, which may serve as a melting pot / online collaboration place for writers and artists. It borrows from the so called "Lake District" in England - a beautiful area which was home to the "lake poets" for several years - Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey - who were connected to the Romantic Movement at the turn of the 19th Century. Incidentally, they are among my favourites... I hope to one day visit the Lake District and regard its splendour over a drink with my old mucker, Professor Darryl E. Frame...
Thank you for reading.
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