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...
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
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.
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