SAJ Stuff

SAJ's Guide to the 2012 Queensland Election...

2012-02-20T16:42:00.001+10:00

CAN you feel it?
The excitement?
Can you control yourself?
CAN YOU CONTROL YOURSELF?!?!?

Course you can. It's only the Queensland state election, where voters like you and me get to choose between a woman with an upside-down mouth; a short bald man; and the man in a hat. Or at least the ~~sheep~~ people following the man in the hat.
Given Australia's commitment to democracy through compulsory voting, all locals over the age of 18 have to vote in this election. Queensland voters have only changed ruling parties three times in the 31 years I've been alive, but are looking a very good chance to turf out the ruling Labor Party and replace them with the opposition LNP. That being the case, let's have a look at the main parties and their contenders for that most glamourous of world political appointments: Queensland Premier.

ANNA BLIGH, Australian Labor Party (ALP)
Anna Bligh became Queensland Premier in September 2007 after her grinning media tart predecessor Peter Beattie resigned to give his kids a break from seeing him on the tv all the time. Since becoming Premier Bligh's government has dealt with a number of crisis, including the Queensland Health payroll debacle where thousands of people were either unpaid, underpaid or overpaid when they migrated to a new IT system.
This resulted in Blight having a very low approval rating until the Queensland floods, when her "We Are Queenslanders" speech helped stamp her as a true leader, in the process sending her approval ratings back into positive territory for the first time in centuries. Unfortunately for the ALP this warm glow soon faded when the government went back to screwing things up, Bligh distinguishing herself with a vicious attack on LNP leader Campbell Newman for his family's business interests on the last parliamentary sitting day.
Is quite short but not an issue as she is female.

CAMPBELL NEWMAN, Liberal-National Part (LNP)
Campbell Newman is an ex-army officer who left his job running the Brisbane City Council to try and run for Premier - a bold strategy when you don't even have a seat in Parliament yet (apparently all the other kids kept saying "seat's taken" when he tried to sit down). Like a diver attempting a triple-somersault-half-pike-double-twist-turn-around-once-and-do-the-eagle-rock to win the Olympics, Newman's decided to do things the hard way by running for the seat of Ashgrove, where by all accounts local member Kate Jones does actually know how to tie up her own shoelaces. Was only picked because no-one knew anything about any of the sitting LNP members.
While Brisbane mayor Newman distinguished himself by building lots of tolled tunnels and bridges, a rude shock to locals who would rather not pay to drive thank-you-very-much. No word on tunnels to Fraser Island or the long-awaited Toowoomba Metro System, although he has strangely come out and said no to the Cross-River Rail project, preferring instead that all trains over the Brisbane River follow each other in a giant conga line during peak hours.
Is quite short, which is apparently an issue as a male.

AIDON MCLINDON Katter's Australia Party
Close election expected, new right-wing party named after a maverick national politician starts getting media time... shit, are we really doing this again? For Pauline Hanson's One Nation in 1998, read Bob Katter's Australia Party in 2012. The Man In The Hat has been busy, driving old London double-deckers around and dancing with "flash mobs" to take his words to the streets. Expected to win at least a few seats, although matching One Nation's 11 in 1998 will take some doing.
Oh, who's Aidon McLindon? Apparently the state leader. Wears glasses I think. Not sure how tall he is though.

EXPECTED OUTCOME
Just about everyone outside (and quite a few inside) the ALP have their money on the LNP. Bookies, professional punters, hairdressers, that bloke that always wants to talk when you're standing at the urinal: they're all going with the little fella. Bligh isn't being helped by the national ALP leadership schemozzle either, with local lad Kevin Rudd saying he didn't get a fair go last time and that he wants to play at being Prime Minister again. For the LNP, no-one's saying who would be Premier if the party wins a majority but Newman fails to land his 10m dive, very possibly on account of all possible candidates being a bigger buzz-kill than Buzz Killington.

SAJ'S VERDICT?
LNP by about 5 seats, Newman to scrape through, majority of Queenslanders to go down the pub and celebrate the fact that we don't have to go to the polls again for a while.
What's that?
Council elections April 28?

Oh for f#$%'s sake...

Going down the road? That'll be a million thanks...

2012-01-07T01:35:00.001+10:00

SO BRISBANE apparently now has the world's third most expensive public transport. We're only behind London and Oslo and with a further 15% hike planned for next year, it can't be long before we gain that particular crown.
The State Government is trying to tell us that this is all to hep fund improvements in the system. And to be fair, infrastructure such as the network of busways around Brisbane doesn't come cheap. The section of the Northern Busway from Roma Street to Herston cost $135 million back in 2004; the tunnel linking Windsor to Kedron pocket change for an Arab oil sheik and not many others.
But here's the thing though. Having travelled the world I've ended up on a fair amount of public transport. In London for example, a trip around Zone 1 on the Underground will set you back £4.30 - around A$6.50. Pricey, yes; but for that you get an extensive network where trains run so frequently that there's not a timetable to be found. Instead you just look at the display on the platform to see when your next train arrives. Not bad when you consider that back in 2007 that same ticket cost you £4.00.
Here in Brisbane a trip around Zone 1 will set you back $4.50. Cheaper, but the devil is in the detail. Grab an Oyster Card in London and that same peak-hour trip will only set you back £2.00 (about A$3), where here in Brisbane your Go Card costs $3.05. Keep travelling all day with an Oyster Card in London's Zone 1 and the most you'll pay is £8.40; keep travelling Brisbane's Zone 1 on your Go Card and you could well find yourself $24.40 under by the time the free travel kicks in after 10 trips in one week.
But surely unlimited free trips after 10 is a pretty sweet deal right? Yep - if you have the time to do what this guy did. The backpacker who bought that card can now travel from the Sunshine Coast to the Gold Coast, stopping at pretty much station along the way for a quick beer (although upon getting out at Dakabin they might be tempted just to get straight back on board). Expect many copycats in the coming weeks, but let's face it: who has the time to do these things? And more to the point, who wants to catch a train and bus down to Surfers Paradise when you can drive in half the time?
On the topic of backpackers, this system really is bad for them. Just say someone wants to catch the bus out to Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary before heading to Mount Coot-tha, coming back into the city then jumping on the CityCat for a quiet cruise before the sun goes down. Said punter asks if they can buy a day pass, only for the receptionist to burst out laughing, holding his hides as the spasms take hold. Eventually he recovers enough to explain that there are no day passes in Brisbane, leading both to question why and mutter dark things under their breaths about the Queensland Government.
Not that the current Opposition's much better. LNP leader Campbell Newman thinks that the Cross-River Rail project - which would double the number of inner-city rail river crossings to 2 - is "an $8 billion unfunded fantasy".
Sigh.
In a time where global warming is something we're trying to avoid, surely a responsible government's best bet is to try help get people out of their cars and onto public transport.
Last I checked, continually raising the prices isn't really going to do that.

Now How Do I Write This...

2010-03-29T17:39:00.006+10:00

I've recently joined up to an ABS support group on Facebook.

Surprisingly enough, it's not the kind of ABS that Clarkson, May and Hammond crap on about once a week on our tv screens. In fact, rather that save lives this ABS has a nasty tendency to end them before a baby's even had the chance to leave the womb.

This support group has a mixture of ABS sufferers and ABS parents. As someone approaching 30 years with Amniotic Band Syndrome, I want to write something to share my experiences with ABS, and how it definitely should not stop you doing anything.

I'm just not sure how.

I guess to start with I'd probably reassure parents - and mothers in particular - that it's not their fault. Two years before I was born my grandmother gave birth to her fifth child (yeah, unusual family). When Sue was born Grandma only wanted to know that the baby was healthy and that it had ten little fingers and ten little toes. I'd imagine it was quite a shock then when Mum went to repeat the quote and discovered something a little different.

Thing is though, nobody's quite sure what causes ABS. The first theory - and the way I explain what happened - is that at some point during the pregnancy there's a rupture in the amniotic sac that surrounds the baby. This means the baby is exposed to very small fibres that can wrap themselves around extremities like hands and feet. Think of it like having a tight rubber band around your fingers: it's kind of like that. The second theory is that there's some kind of blood circulation defect.

So what causes that sac to rupture? No-one's actually all that sure really. It's not a genetic thing and it certainly doesn't affect future pregnancies - I'm the oldest out of Mum's six kids and the only one with ABS. All I put it down to is one of those things that happens from time to time.

I guess all I'd say to parents then is simple: It's not your fault.

So what then would I say about growing up with ABS?

That's a tough one. I could start by saying that some way, somehow, kids adapt. Despite being born with all fingers fused together on my left hand and only three affected on my right, apparently right up until I was 2 I was left-handed. No idea how I managed that. It's something that still sticks with me today, most often when I put a coffee cup on the table then turn the handle around to my left. It might seem implausible to parents, but trust me, you don't miss what you never had.

I could then go on by saying that to try and fix ABS deformities is not easy. For me it's taken seven sets of plastic surgery at three different ages (two at age 2, three at 9, two at 16) to reduce the webbing down so each finger can move individually. I'd also mention that it hurts. Imagine your hand being caught in a vice for two weeks, throbbing so badly you so think that they've actually moved your heart from your chest to your hand, which, incidentally, you can't use for up to a month. (On a completely unrelated topic, buying sporting equipment for a birthday that arrives while you're still in hospital recovering is not a Good Thing. Couldn't use that bloody cricket bat all summer...)

It would also be remiss not to mention that both sufferers and parents are going to get a lot of looks and a lot of questions. ABS isn't all that common - about 1 in 1200 live births, with many of those of having mild deformities as a result. I've met tens of thousands of people both in Australia and overseas, and only know of one person with a hand resembling my own - and even then a sketchy memory tells me it was something other than ABS.

Because it's not that common people will ask questions. Mum was often asked if she'd been on Thalidomide when pregnant with me; fortunately that particular drug was taken off the market back in 1961 as opposed to 1980. Kids will also point and stare, as kids are want to do. Where my three brothers just accepted things and got on with it, Mum's youngest two - who are 18 and 21 years younger than me - often ask questions or want to have a good look. When I was younger this would freak me out, but now I'd rather people asked what happened rather than them come up with their own explanations (the one at boarding school where apparently my parents were cousins was the best).

I guess though the big thing I'd tell ABS sufferers is that it shouldn't hold you back any. There are going to be times where something triggers you off and all you can do is sit there and wonder "why me?".

I certainly used to do that. Still do sometimes if I'm honest, although that's fading with age. It's easy too to blame things on the fact that you're different. Again, fading with age.

Sure, there are always things you're not going to be able to do. I can't join the Defence Force or police; I'm certainly not your man when it comes to getting and holding a round of drinks in a crowded bar or club!

I'd tell those with ABS how my parents actively encouraged me to get out and use my hands, to not feel like I was any different to anyone else. I'd talk about winning a piano competition at the Toowoomba Eisteddfod (trio, 1990 for those playing at home); working out a way of bowling leg-spin in cricket (for the uninitiated, something very difficult to do for anyone); playing National League indoor cricket in England (even if I did get the call-up in the pub the night before); and finally spending four years working as a tour guide in Europe, meeting and entertaining thousands of people, precisely none of which cared I had ABS.

I guess that's what I'd say. Question is though, how best to write it?

Please Let Me In Mr Hostel Man

2010-03-17T22:43:00.004+10:00

With humblest apologies to Billy Joel...

WELL it's 1am on a Saturday

The regulars drunks shuffle in

There's an Irishman standing next to me

Smells like he's been hitting the gin

He says "mate can I get on the internet?

I'm going to go talk with mammy

Tell her I'm fine, drinking shitloads of wine

But in the morn I'll be feeling shabby"

La la la didi da da

Lala didi da da daaaaa

Please let me in Mr Hostel Man

Please let me in tonight

I need to go lay down for a little bit

Because I'm not really feeling alright

Now the girls at the bar, they are friends of mine

Still won't give me my drinks for free

But they're quick with a joke, and my bourbon and coke

And there's no place that they'd rather be

They say "man, that strange guy, I sure he's stalking me"

As the smile runs away from their face

"I think that I might call the bouncers across

So he can get out of this place"

La la la didi da da

Lala didi da da daaaaa

Now Paul is a local long-termer

Who's not really looking for a wife

And he's talking with Tony, who can be a phony

Next time in jail, it's probably for life

And there's guests shagging in the tv room

A drunk man gives the dog a bone

And it doesn't matter when I tell them to go

They're back at it when they're back alone

Please let us be Mr Hostel Man

Please let us be tonight

I haven't had sex in over six months

And now this is feeling alright

It's a rowdy old crowd on this Saturday

The bar manager gives me a smile

Coz this revelry pays for my salary

While they forget about life for a while

And the reception it sounds like a carnival

And all the guests, well they smell like a beer

And they come to the counter for support or they'll flounder

And say "Man, what are YOU doing here?"

La la la didi da da

Lala didi da da daaaaa

Please let me in Mr Hostel Man

Please let me in tonight

Me sweetheart's upstairs, how can you not care

I'm need to see that's she's feeling alright...

Your Instinct Can't Be Wrong...

2010-03-03T18:17:00.002+10:00

So I've sold my soul to the devil and actually watched part of So You Think You Can Dance Australia on the idiot box a couple of times now. I'm not proud: on one occasion I was over a mate's place; tonight it's because Old Man River decided to change over to it (between you and me, I think he's going through that Mid-Life thing).

I've also watched more than one episode of Australian Idol, which under today's standards leaves me fully qualified as a social commentator. Somehow I doubt this would pass close scrutiny, but something about both shows has struck me.

Now I'm a sports fan first and foremost. Like former US Chief Justice Earl Warren, I always turn to the sports pages first: "the sports section records people's accomplishments; the front pages nothing but man's failures".

My sport of choice is cricket, a game that caters to pretty much everyone. You have the option of following the classical techniques (McGrath, Lillee, Hadlee, Warne et al) or the unconventional (Muralitharan, Mitchell Johnson, Malinga). And that's just the bowlers.

Thing is though, ask a knowledgable cricket fan who they'd really like to watch, and they'll probably tell you Johnson or Murali bowling to Afridi or McCullum. What do these four have in common? They're all instinctive players.

Forgive me if I'm wrong, but what Dance and Idol seem to lack are instinctive performers.

Make no mistake: technically, these guys are brilliant. The control these guys/girls have over their bodies/voices is nothing short of amazing. To consistently do what they do takes years of training that allows them to do things the rest of us can only sit there and dream of doing.

But...

It's a potential thing. I'd rather watch Johnson and Afridi take risks on the off that it leads to something special; likewise, I'd like to see performers take a risk on the chance that its leads to something unforgettable. Better that than play it safe for something that you remember for whole minutes.

Unfortunately Dance and Idol's formats don't lend themselves to this kind of risk-taking: wouldn't it be compelling viewing if they did?

Is Australia racist?

2010-02-03T19:13:00.003+10:00

IT'S the question that comes up every few years or so. Events in Australia seem to show a dangerous undercurrent of racism that pundits here and abroad are quick to comment on. In recent times this has ranged from a spate of attacks on Indian students (especially in Melbourne), to a drunken idiot of a spectator crash-tackling Pakistan cricketer Khalid Latif during a One-Day International in Perth.
Certainly Australia's history seems to be held against it. Australia's indigenous population went down from an estimated minimum of 315,000 to just 93,000; in part due to the effects of diseases such as smallpox for which they had no natural immunity to, but also due to the Australian Frontier Wars, which killed an estimated 20,000 indigenous people (compared to around 2000 European deaths). Indigenous Tasmanians suffered the worst, wiped out so effectively that some historians consider it an act of genocide. Indeed, it wasn't until a 1967 referendum that Indigenous Australians were counted in the national census.
Sadly, this wasn't the extent of early Australian racism. During the gold rushes opf the mid-1800s Asian prospectors were often resented for their work ethic and their habit of working together, as opposed to the European custom of working alone or in small groups. This resentment eventually got so bad in the goldfields of Burrangong that on 30 June 1861 a group of around 3000 Europeans drove the Chinese off the goldfields, destroying their camps. This followed a series of anti-Chinese attacks on other goldfield scattered around the country.
Possibly though the pinnacle of Australian racism was the Immigration Restriction act of 1901. This was one of the first pieces of legislation passed by the first Australian Government after Federation in 1901; designed to keep "undesirables" (Indians and Eastern Asians) out, it gave immigration officers the power to ask potential immigrants to complete a dictation test in any European language they chose (later expanded to any language). This test backfired rather badly in 1934 when Czech-born Jewish Communist Egon Kisch passed the test in a number of European languages before coming unstuck when the immgration officer asked him to write down the Lord's Prayer in Scottish Gaelic; a task the immigration officer wasn't able to do himself.

SO THAT was then; what about now? After World War II the Australian Government embarked on a scheme to help populate Australia after fears that the relatively low pre-WWII population would make possible invasion easier. By 1955 the one millionth post-war immigrant arrived in Australia; while in 1949 work began on the Snowy Mountains Scheme, a project that involved workers from over 30 different countries, a fact commemorated in the town of Cooma with the Avenue of Flags. Indeed, the story of the Snowy Mountains Scheme is one of remarkable tolerance given that many involved were fighting each other during WWII.

Later years saw further positive changes, with Aboriginals finally given the vote in 1962 before a 1967 referendum to include Indigenous Australians in the census and allow the Federal Government to make laws for Indigenous people was endorsed by over 90% of voters. The 1970s also saw mass Asian immigration after the Whitlam Government scrapped the White Australia policy.

In more recent times Australia has had the unfortunate spectacle (if that's the word) of the 2005 Cronulla riots, where people of Middle Eastern appearance were attacked by an angry mob that had initially gathered peacefully. A few years earlier right-wing politician Pauline Hanson's maiden speech to Parliament (see page 47) warned of the dangers of multiculturalism; while the current attacks on Indians don't seem to suggest that much has changed in 200 years.

But still...

In this article published by the Sydney Morning Herald, Gerard Henderson suggests there are two ways of testing racism in a country: ethnic crime and intermarriage. Colloquial evidence would suggest low levels of the first and higher levels of the second; indeed, I can only think of one case of parental disapproval due to a partner's race - which says everything about the person involved.

SO WHAT is it then? Are Australians, by nature, racist?

Let's not kid ourselves: there is racism in Australia, just as there is racism everywhere else in the world. Perhaps Australia's location away from pretty much everyone doesn't help: how many Australians actually experience other cultures compared to, say, Europeans; while how much does the rest of the world know about Australian culture outside of Neighbours and Home and Away? Having worked with international tourist both in Australia and abroad, I can personally vouch that Australians aren't the only ones with the "it's not like this back home" mentality.

But perhaps though the final word should go to a man who makes no secret of his love for Australia. In his book Downunder author Bill Bryson retells the story of a post-war immigrant who went to the police station after arriving to register his presence. The officer stepped out from behind the desk, but instead of striking the new immigrant, put out his hand and welcomed him to the country.

Doesn't sound very racist to me.

So That Was The Noughties...

2009-12-31T19:36:00.004+10:00

I WRITE this in the centre of Brisbane, only a few hundred metres from Victoria Bridge where I counted in the year 2000. I can remember ringing in the new millennium surrounded by thousands of other revellers, yet still being by myself as predictions of mass chaos from Y2K went the way of other doomsday theories.
The whole thing has a nice symmetry to it: beginning and finishing my first decade as an adult in roughly the same place, although midnight will be spent up in the Valley rather than the City.
To say though that Brisbane's been where it's at the last ten years would be misleading.
For us Australians, the year 2000 brought the unforgettable Sydney Olympics. Even though I didn't make it to any Olympic events - Olympic soccer matches were here in Brisbane - I can safely say it changed my life. One afternoon I was due to attend a third-year chemistry lab class, but decided against it in favour of watching Bruce McAvaney crap on about Australia's equestrian gold medal for about the fifth time that day.
It was around that time that Mum's$%&^#@& of an ex-husband made possibly the only constructive comment of the decade. I'd shown Mum a letter I'd had published to the Cricinfo newsletter, whereupon he suggested that if I liked sport so much then why not become a sports journalist? This prompted an online search for university courses (I was studying Information Technology and Science at the time), and in February 2001 I moved interstate down to Canberra - although not before a summer spent in great company carving up the Criterion in Brisbane!!!
Life in Canberra was interesting. When I moved I wasn't interested in fashion, looking good, or evolving much beyond bogan. Blaise and Cagey, two older friends doing the same course, helped me start moving forward and come out of my shell a lot more.
Work and living in Canberra could be tough. I was kicked out of one place in 2003 around the same time as the radio station I worked at, SSS FM, closed down; add to this a relationship that never really got off the ground, my car breaking down for good and crashing Cagey's car - it wasn't the greatest time of my life!
Later that year I sent my resume to one of the journalism lecturers after he asked if any was interested in working for the Cooma-Monaro Express. Despite my flippant reply (yeah, I'll chuck my name forward), I was employed as a cadet journalist. My first full-time job lasted two years - which was a lot longer than some may have felt it would.
Cooma was good insofar as getting a city boy into a different environment. While down there I tried to involve myself in as much sport as possible, getting to know many people quicker than what I might have earlier in the decade.
One such person was young Jason, who told me of his plans to travel Europe with a company called Busabout in 2005. I'd never heard of this mob before; after looking into it I couldn't wait to travel with them. Eventually Jason, Cat and myself spent two enjoyable months travelling Europe, catching Running of the Bulls in Pamplona and meeting some amazing people that I still keep in contact with today.
Travelling Busabout with Jason was probably the best thing I did. At the time my self-confidence wasn't the greatest - it took travelling with an extrovert to realise that people are - for the most part - friendly. Jason would get people into our social group whereupon I could actually talk to them! Watching the guides do their thing made me realise that I had the skills to do the same; after a lifetime of moving around sitting up the front of a big blue coach talking on a microphone seemed like a dream job to me!
As such I applied to Busabout in October 2005, flying over to the UK for a week for the interviews. Upon arrival I had the quinella - a lost contact lens the morning of the interviews, combined with the late announcement that the individual interviews would be done after I was due to fly back to Australia! Fortunately we did this one over the phone, after which I was accepted to the training trip.
Busabout has since dominated my life. Working for six months in the European summer, I've been lucky enough to take people around France, Belgium, Netherlands, Germany, Czech Republic, Austria, Italy, Switzerland, Spain, Portugal, Croatia, Greece - and even Liechtenstein! I also did some work for Contiki in London and Paris, and for Eastern Trekker in Czech Republic, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Croatia, Slovenia and Austria. Busabout also gave me the chance to head up to Lapland in northern Finland - one of the most enjoyable tours I've been on! Having people come up to you randomly and say they enjoyed your work was amazing; the response I got from people when I announced I'd finished working for Busabout blew me away!
In between seasons I've worked in a five-star hotel and offices in London; travelled the USA, South Africa, Dubai, Sri Lanka, Singapore and Malaysia; and even celebrated Anzac Day with other ex-pats in Toronto.
Throughout I've met some awesome people, both crew and paying punters from around the world. I've been honoured by being best man at Mark and Kara's wedding, two friends from the start of the decade that are first on my list of friends I see back here in Brisbane, and in whose company I'll see in the new decade tonight.
All in all the Noughties have been one hell of a decade! I guess despite my life's twists and turns since the start of 2000, it's nice to wind the decade back up where it started.
Here's to the next 10 years!!!

Hello Computer...

2009-12-16T00:30:00.002+10:00

SO I'm going to assume that since you've made it to this blog you've all heard of the Great Wall of China, yeah?
Working from there, I'm going to take a stab in the dark and say that around 98% of you know about the Great Barrier Reef in Australia.
We're then going to take a great leap forward and make mention of the Great Firewall of China as well - you know, the one that doesn't let you look at anything the Chinese Government doesn't want you to. For all the advancements the People's Republic of China has made economically in the last 20 years, their modern-day version of an ancient wonder is a reminder that people there don't enjoy the same freedoms most in the Western world do.
Here in Australia, it seems as though the Federal Government has also decided to remake an old classic, with the announcement yesterday that their controversial Internet censorship plan will go ahead after recent trials.
Now this plan in theory isn't a bad idea; certainly the premise behind it - to keep people from accessing materials they shouldn't, including child pornography - is worthy. Anyone found downloading these kinds of things should be taken out in the street, paraded in the stocks, put on the racks, hung, drawn, quartered... and whatever else the CIA uses down in their Cuban outpost before watching their heart being torn out from their chest.
The problem with this kind of technology is that hackers and degenerates have a habit of being a step or 36 ahead of even the most advanced government. While this doesn't mean that governments should give up trying to stop this despicable trade, their focus would be better spent on advanced detection techniques.
The other concern with this Australian proposal is the potential for perfectly legal websites to to blacklisted. Earlier this year reports came out that the potential "blacklist" contained Wikipedia entries, Christian websites and a Queensland dentist. How long before other websites are caught up in this "safety net"?
It's been suggested that the project will allow children to surf the net without coming across any of those naughty pictures that probably make up around 66.6% of Internet content, although there is a much easier way of stopping this. It's wild, crazy, and could take a while to fully kick in, but here goes...
HAVE PARENTS SUPERVISE THEIR CHILDREN ON THE WEB!!!!!!
Now I know this may go against the whole "it's someone else's fault and they should do something about it" variation of modern parenting that apparently has taken over, but surely to goodness if parents are watching what their kids are looking at, there wouldn't be a need for the Government to do what Frankie Goes To Hollywood do here and ruin one of the great originals with an un-needed and unwanted remake.

Simply The Best?

2008-12-11T23:57:00.002+10:00

INTERESTING article in today's Sydney Morning Herald about Australia and how it's viewed in the USA. In it, Peter Hartcher makes mention of four encounters he had regarding Australia around the time of the presidential election.
For those with time or motivation-related issues, the general gist of the article is that the Hawke, Keating, Howard and Rudd governments (from 1983 to the present day) have all contributed to Australia having a high standing in the world today. Former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright describes our electoral system as "the leading model"; a Wall Street Journal columnist asks not what an Obama government means for Australia, but rather what a Rudd government means for the US; a leading economist suggests Australia could actually avoid recession in the next few years; while a leading US banker suggested his country could take lessons from Australia in how to deal with the crisis.
Three of these deal with Australia from an economic standpoint - clearly not my area of expertise! But is Australia really at the top?
Nay-sayers certainly have plenty to point out. Indigenous health and educations standards are still well below the rest of the population; environmental issues (including the declining state of the Murray-Darling basin and the future of the Great Barrier Reef) require long-term planning; while there are those that say that Australia's three tiers of government (federal, state and local for those playing at home) means large amounts of red tape stifling growth.
Of course, anyone concerned about the last should probably check out red tape in the European Union. The words "you're kidding" often spring to mind...
But then, no country is without its own issues. Iceland's economy just went into free-fall; other Scandanavian countries can be prohibitively expensive; while close cousins New Zealand have to work to rectify a brain-drain to countries such as Australia, the UK and the USA.
After spending time overseas, I can say it's a relief not to worry about putting bags down for a second or things in pockets, never to be seen again. The general friendliness of Australians is also a blessed relief after the surliness of your average Londoner.
So yeah, I would say we're up there: but as Hartcher said towards the end of his article, this is no time for complacency.

Through The Streets Of Your Town...

2008-03-04T22:36:00.002+10:00

GOT back to Brisbane for the first time in two years the other day.
It was never meant to be that long. I was originally due back in November 2006; my little trick in destroying the ticket first laundry load in the UK was probably a sign that date with the plane was never going to happen.
In those two years I worked and travelled right around Europe: starting with mind-numbing speed of the Busabout training trip; two seasons of working with Busabout; trips around Ireland and Britain; the unexpectedness of seven Contiki tours; going to La Tomatina and Oktoberfest; a delayed trip to Romania; and the unexpected but very welcome bonus of a Lapland tour just before I headed home. In that time I travelled around Ireland, Wales, Scotland, England, France, Belgium, The Netherlands, Germany, Czech Republic, Austria, Switzerland, Italy, Spain, Monaco, Liechtenstein, The Vatican City, Romania and Finland; met hundreds of fantastic people and had an absolute blast.
So why get excited about heading back to a city that until recently that's been known as a hick town in my lifetime?
It didn't hit that I was home - or what passes as it - on the plane across from Perth. I'd jumped online early on in order to get a window seat, but poor weather meant I couldn't get my normal view of Lang Park and the Gabba as we made our final approach to the airport.
Nope, it hit me I was home on the 350 bus to the city. Strange, I know.
All started just down from the Rode Road roundabout in the north of the city. When I first started going to uni the roundabout used to be an absolute pain in the rear to get through during peak hour. I'd regularly be just a few kilometres from my stop, but have to wait an extra 30 minutes or so for the bus to get through this ridiculous traffic hazard.
The overpass was supposed to be finished late 1998 from memory but wasn't until well after I left the area. Bastards.
I jumped on the bus on Old Northern Road on a section that goes waaaaay up then waaaaay down and is probably still a favourite with the boys in blue.
Down a little bit further we passed the shopping area at Everton Park. I can remember back in the day we used to get really excited passing there because they had real Slurpees like on the tv ads! From what I can remember there's always been a KFC there - and a "4 foot can't-remember-how-many inches human DYNAMO" called Judy Latham flogging real estate. It's also where Mum works now (and yes, I stopped by on the way back. Ok, it was only because she forgot her keys...).
To the right of this little shopping area is a bigger shopping area called Brookside, where Matt and I used to run around like mad chooks while Mum tried to keep us in line. Further down my route though was a section of road that could nab the unsuspecting. The left lane of South Pine Road just before it veers to the left has a number of dips that have been there pretty much forever; I reckon they aren't game to risk the traffic jams to fix it!
Down a little bit further on the Pickering Street overpass: another intersection that was a major traffic hazard before they built the bridge. That one's been up for a while: early 90s I think?
Go down a little bit further and the Matilda service station on the right marked the turn-off for the army barracks where Dad was posted the first couple of times we lived in Brisbane. I can remember many a function at the Seargent's Mess down the back of the barracks; the flying fox I could never quite hold onto long enough; Matt and I always queuing up for seconds when Maccas came round; and even waiting for my cousin and the three brothers to buy their sweets when Dad gave us a truckload of change. Always had to wait till last: that was the drama of being the oldest.
Going further down Wardell Street we veered to the left near Marist College. We had some family friends live there that we'd known since Townsville (where Matt and I made our world debuts). I can remember playing soccer for TGS there in 1996, although that marked the beginning of the end for one of the few enduring childhood friendships I had.
Onward then to Ashgrove then left onto Waterworks Road. We used to travel down this road a lot when we first moved to Brisbane (The Gap to be precise) in 1986. Explains why I laughed for a good ten minutes when I heard Jimmy Maher years later say "she's got legs like Waterworks Road... all the way to The Gap" on the radio. Had to be there I guess.
Down then towards the city, past the Normanby Hotel. Heard there's been a few dramas down that way recently: a shame really. Picked up there first night out after coming back from first trip around Europe in '05, then had Matt berate me a few days later for not being in a relationship. You get that.
Nearly done then... past Roma Street Station and the Brisbane Transit Centre, where I caught lost of coaches up to Toowoomba when boarding up there - and even one coach to Perth! Obviously it didn't go direct, but it was where that particular journey began.
Last stop Brisbane City: scene of many a drunken night at the Vic or the Cri. When we first moved to Brisbane in 1986 the Queen Street Mall was a bit different. I can remember going with both grandmothers to Tops at the top of the Myer Centre and begging to go on the admittedly poxy dragon coaster just below the roof. That and playing a multitude of arcade games at the Timezone when supposed to be at uni.
I've lived less than half my life in Brisbane. But with memories like these, it'll be home for a while yet.

Life In The Fast Lane...

2007-12-11T23:51:00.000+10:00

EVER had the blinkers on?
For those not familiar with horse-racing, these are bits of leather or plastic placed near a horse's eyes to narrow their focus to just what's in front of them.
Sometimes people have that too. Sometimes though, it can be better to get out and do something a little bit different, go off the beaten track (cliche count growing rapidly here).
A couple of events here in London have brought that back home to me.
First up, I went for a walk around Wimbledon one Sunday afternoon. I doubt if even the locals could have found anything charitable to say about the weather, what with it being cold, wet and generally miserable, but given the mouse that powers my brain wheel was buzzing around like Mickey Mouse on speed, I had to get out and do something.
While out walking I decided to check out the local shopping area, see what was around, grab a snack etc. Glad I did.
Behind the main street I came across a second-hand bookstore. Now I should mention early up that I'm addicted to reading - and especially any good sporting books (cricket in particular but this should come as a surprise to nobody). In Cooma I used to pop into a second-hand bookstore there and generally came away with something good to add to the library.
This bookstore was no different. Think of an English house (many levels, rooms all over the place), with all the walls and a number of shelves jam-packed with ink on paper.
The cricket section took a bit of finding but was well worth it - a few old Wisdens, some good biographies and even some old-school histories. This was all next to massive tennis and soccer (football) sections, all tucked away in a room overlooking the street.
Now this would have been enough by itself, but the owners had decided to get into the Christmas spirit and handed out cups of mulled wine for everyone. What's not to like?!?
The other event involved that horrendously painful experience of commuting to work.
Now Wimbledon's a fair way out from the city, meaning I can catch two trains and take well over an hour or catch three trains and take about an hour.
I mentioned this to my boss one night and he reckoned the best way was to walk from the main station to work - around 20 minutes or so compared to 30 or more on the train (the London Underground can get extremely busy).
I've been doing this for a few weeks now, and can't help but be blown away. The walk home goes past the Royal Courts of Justice, St Clement's Church (oranges and lemons said the bells of...), Australia House, Somerset House (ice skating in the main courtyard), and over Waterloo Bridge, from which I can see the London Eye, Houses of Parliament, St Paul's Cathedral and the Southbank area.
All this by taking the blinkers off.
But I guess that's the same everywhere too. The beauty of Venice's Piazza San Marco is ruined by wall-to-wall tourists and pigeons, but head about 10 minutes away and you've got enchanting laneways pretty much to yourself.
Stop for a walk in Cooma and have a look at the courthouse, or even go off the beaten track and come across an old church or town that time seems to have overlooked.
Either way, take the blinkers off and get out of the fast lane. Never know what you'll find.

I'm On The Road Again...

2007-05-04T19:23:00.000+10:00

I'VE mentioned a few times in the last few posts about the fact I've moved on more than one occasion. I can never really figure out the exact number, but generally my age matches the number of houses I've lived in.
Each time it comes to move I like to tell myself it's getting easier. And to an extent it is: with the wonders of e-mails and mobile phones it's not that hard to keep in contact with friends you've made along the way.
There's also the bonus of not seeing people you don't want to on account of not living in the same area.
Despite this, it's still hard to say goodbye.
You become accustomed to an area, used to its little quirks and follibles. I can tell you which tube carriage to go on if you're heading northbound to Willesden Green or southbound to Charing Cross on the Bakerloo line if you want to get out before the rest of the great unwashed.
There's the social groups that will inevitably drift apart once one member moves on, leaving memories and a few good stories to tell at parties.
Then there's the friends.
Every time I've changed cities I've left behind people that I'd rather not have; the kind of friends that are willing to do anything for you at the drop of a hat. And vice-versa.
I'm leaving all that...
Good thing I'm back on the tour buses Tuesday!

God Save The Future Queen...

2007-04-23T12:44:00.000+10:00

I SEE that Denmark's Princess Mary has had a baby girl.
By all accounts it sounds like mother and daughter are doing well, while Prince Frederik is reported to be delighted with the addition to his family. Certainly, he's managed to get one of each a lot quicker than it took Mum, who finally got a baby girl on the sixth attempt.
But as my cousin Aaron pointed out, neither of us was actually aware of the fact that Mary was even pregnant. We put this down to being in England, where they don't feel the need to report on Mary's every bowel movement because she was born and bred in Tasmania.
Of course the reason for this is that England have their very own royal family to write reports about every time they have a bowel movement.
The major target of these reporters/photographers was of course Princess Diana. They "reported" on pretty much every that happened in her life, eventually driving her driver up to and into the wall, which then proved that seatbelts are a lot more than a fashion statement.
After that little escapade things quietened down a bit, only to increase as Princes William and Harry hit drinking age and starting to muck about in pubs and clubs.
There's a shock - young men drinking and acting the fool. Never seen anything like that before...
First up Harry copped a bit for acting the Hooray Henry (or Harry) and laying into paparazzi when they lay in wait for him after a big night out. That and dressing as a Nazi stormtrooper at a fancy-dress party.
Meanwhile old Bill's been copping it as well. In recent times he's been photographed groping the breast of a Brazilian in a posed photo (she wasn't aware until she saw the photo), and took a girl back to barracks. Admittedly, this was because he had a girlfriend back home who wasn't particularly impressed.
And now the two are no longer an item. Again, two people in their mid-twenties breaking up is about as shocking as a politician saying they need to raise taxes or that he was very sorry for getting drunk and doing something silly.
But no, this came as a massive shock to the royal reporters, many of whom had tipped an engagement by the end of the year. One company even designed a series of commemorative souvenirs to flog the instant an announcement was made.
Evidently the breakup was such a newsworthy event that half the Amazon rainforest was cut down and converted to newsprint to analyse why it went wrong.
Why they would do this is completely beyond me. By all accounts Will has a pretty good head on his shoulders, and he's acutely aware of the fact that any future bride is going to have to go through a hell of a lot from the media.
And let's face it, who wants to go through that in their mid-twenties?

I Don't Like Cricket... I Love It!

2007-04-16T13:15:00.000+10:00

GROWING up we didn't have much in the way of stability. Dad's job in the army meant we moved around a bit: so much so that the school I finished up at was my eighth such institution (five primary and three secondary for the curious/nosey).
In that time we went from Townsville to Canberra to Brisbane to Toowoomba to Queanbeyan to Caboolture to Brisbane before I kicked on at boarding school in Toowoomba. They're all very different cities with very different climates.
But the more things changed the more they stayed the same.
Up until 1997 Dad's parents lived in the same place in Mildura; we always had a pet of some description (generally a dog); and weekends in summer would always see the same scene repeating itself in the lounge room. Dad would be sprawled out on the couch and simultaneously reading a book, listening to the radio and watching the cricket with the volume turned down. Often while asleep. Alter this finely-tuned balance and Dad would pipe up that he was watching/listening/reading that.
Just quietly, from the research I've done it seems this scene was repeated throughout the country.
All this is a long-winded way of saying that from a young age I've been indoctrinated with cricket. Where most would have been upset at the "bloody cricket" being on the tv yet again, my main concern was that I couldn't hear the commentators because the radio was on.
I couldn't hear the commentators last Friday either, but not because a close relative had turned on the radio to stop me from hearing what those esteemed gentlemen had to say about Ireland getting walloped by Australia. Indeed, I didn't have a radio to listen to.
Reason for this was that I watching a game of cricket at Lord's, the home of cricket.
This had been a goal for me since I began travelling to this side of the world two years ago, and while it wasn't the Ashes Test I was hoping for at the time (courtesy of a media officer not approving my application for a press pass), the MCC (Marylebone Cricket Club) against county champions Sussex would do nicely.
I arrived just after the first over of the season, which contained the first wicket of the season when James Kirtley forced Nick Compton to edge to slips. All this is worthy of nothing other than the fact that I was sitting in the Denis Compton stands (Nick is the grandson of the late England great).
There was still room for the surreal though: early on I was reading an article by Times cricket writer Christopher Martin-Jenkins about the start of the English season while son Robin Martin-Jenkins fielded in front of me at deep fine leg.
There were around 50 people in the stand I was in, scattered around like someone had thrown a handful of dice. Behind me a group of Sussex lads cheered on their mate Chris Nash, applauding his every dive, throw and stretch with a gusto only long-time mates can do without embarassment.
There was probably another 100 or so in the stand to my right, while the MCC members took up their seats in front of the pavilion. Some MCC players - who included Steve Harmison and Matthew Hoggard in the numbers - sprawled out on the home team's verandah while up in the media centre a handful of journalists enjoyed an Alistair Cook century on an otherwise uneventful day.
Actually, that's not true. The MCC lost three wickets in the last session, but by that stage I was gone; off to listen to people bitch about the fact they were seated in the front row of a comedy show (three even walked out after the first act).
But that's another story for another time...

For an alternative view on the first day check out this BBC report.

Up And Down And Back Again...

2007-04-02T13:19:00.000+10:00

TOWNSVILLE, the town I was born in, is about 1335km away by road from Brisbane. It is 2214km to Mildura in north-western Victoria.
Impressive figures, and only noteworthy because Brisbane and Mildura are where Mum and Dad's families resided at the time. Certainly a long way to travel just to catch up with my parent's nearest and dearest.
Given that cheap flights at the start of the 1980's generally cost an arm and a leg (and possibly an ear as well), it's not surprising that we did a lot of travelling by car, especially as the family increased in size and Dad's job took us along the Eastern Seaboard.
Obviously you can't do these trips without some form of entertainment - screaming children not really classifying as entertainment unless you're into getting your hand caught in a chainsaw on a regular basis. Sometimes we'd (generally Matt and I) would sing Australian folk songs, but for the other 15-odd hours of the trip we got the best of Mum and Dad's cassette tapes. Aaron, Phil, Leith - you now know who to blame for the Elton John/Paul Simon/Jimmy Barnes et al that I'm so strangely fond of blasting your eardrums with.
To me there was something so compelling about travelling through the countryside with the music to keep us company. When old favourites came on (Hotel California for Mum, Crocodile Rock for Dad), we'd crank the music up and sing along before going back to the bickering that accompanies all large families on long road trips.
This in turn set me up for my current job as a tour guide, where large stretches of the journey are watching the world go by while listening to music.
Mention you're a tour guide and people will generally describe it as a dream job. To be fair it does have its perks - you meet a truckload of people, get to travel an area extensively (in my case Europe), and generally help people enjoy the trip of a lifetime.
There are downsides to everything though.
Talk to Dad and I'm sure he'll tell you he doesn't regret his time in the military: yet that same time also took him away from his young family for long periods of time, leaving Mum to deal with four constantly bickering sons.
Likewise, as Mum is very fond of telling people (while I'm standing next to her no less), if she had her time over again she wouldn't have married and had children so young (19 and 20 respectively). Even though I'm the child she had at 20 I can see her point: getting settled down so young meant there was very little time for exploring the world.
For me, while many think tour guides (especially male ones) are Hugh Hefner wannabes on wheeled Playboy mansions, if you're not close to your driver you really can be on your own when the faecal matter hits the revolving blades. I was lucky that I had a few friends among the passengers I was ferrying around when that happened to me last year.
It's even impacted me in the time I've been in London. I can think of at least three times in the last 12 months where I've been questioned (interrogated would be closer to it) by females about my plans post-touring. Tell them you're not sure (visa issues and the need to pay at least a fleeting visit back home) and that's pretty much where the conversation stops. Which, again, is fair enough - who wants a six-month long-distance relationship with someone who's in a job that's traditionally about as compatible with monogamy as George W. Bush at an al-Qaeda meeting?
But them's the breaks. On balance, I'm more than happy doing what I do during the northern summer. Just don't be surprised though when I give a little wry grin when someone tells me I have the best job in the world.

Now everybody's lost the way that I was...

2007-03-30T14:26:00.000+10:00

I COME from a family where getting lost is the family tradition.
Give my aunt a map and a mission to get from Brisbane to Toowoomba, and she may just manage it without going via Sydney. My late grandmother was pretty much the same: after one visit I mentioned to Mum that Grandma had taken me to the cinema then gone past a place they used to live at when Mum was a young 'un. Mum's response was along the lines of asking whether we'd got lost doing this treacherous stunt.
I'm the same on this side of the world. After a lifetime of growing up with the sun in the north, I have to really think about it when someone gives me a compass direction to head in.
This extends to the wonders of the internet.
Ignoring the obvious that pretty much any search will end up with at least one link to adult content, it never ceases to amaze me just where you can end up when surfing the very interesting 11pm-7am night shift away.
Wikipedia's the worst for this. Pretty much anything in an article that has an article of its own will have a link to that page. This can lead some interesting places.
Take Paul Simon for example. I've upgraded the iPod after the old one decided it wasn't going to be reliable anymore, and as such have been going through familiar artists to get songs that can be played with minimal complaints from drivers during this summer's touring season. After finding quite a few of Simon's solo tracks that I liked I decided to have a look at his Wikipedia article.
While reading this (and having little side adventures to the Simon & Garfunkel page), I found that in his younger days Simon had written a few songs with Bruce Woodley of The Seekers. Curious as to the appeal of The Seekers (or indeed why they're treated as royalty back home), I clicked on that link.
While looking that up I found out that The Seekers classic "The Carnival Is Over" was played at the end of Expo '88, the world exposition that many people consider the birth of a newer, more city-like Brisbane.
Which in turn ties in with a blog by Brisbane author John Birmingham on the Brisbane Times website about Brisbane and what could be done to make it great.
Even for a quick reader like myself, this does take a little bit of time to get through.
Such is the wonder of the internet. More than just adult content...

If I Could Talk To The Animals...

2007-02-24T16:08:00.000+10:00

LONDON'S brilliant for oh so many things. The sights, the history, the nightlife; even the amazingly eclectic array of nationalities that set up camp here. Just in my workplace alone we have Australians, South Africans, Swedes, Poles, Italians, Albanians and the occasional token Pom. It certainly livens up the place in a way that, bizarrely enough, only Cooma has matched.
Unfortunately for yours truly, there's not a real lot to do in London between 3am and 5am when you're working as the night porter ina fairly swanky hotel. The temperature's cold, the skies often bursting or about to, and all you're thinking about is getting home and dropping into a sound enough sleep so as not to wake up when the flatmates do their midday re-enactment of Pamplona's Running of the Bulls (complete with hooping and hollering).
To fill in the inevitable blanks, you tend to jump onto the net and find out what's been going on back home. Ordinarily I log onto the Sydney Morning Herald website on account of that newspaper providing some thoughtful analysis of sport and news without dipping into sensationalism. Of course, being a Queenslander I am known to drop across to the Courier-Mail's website where this interesting article recently appeared about pets (in particular pet dogs). The bloody thing made me homesick!
I can't remember a time from 0-18 when the family, or even Mum after the split, didn't have a pet of some kind. Obviously I can't remember the ones 0-5, but after that we had quite the collection of animals with their own personalities.
Top of the list would have to have been the dog Jemma. She was actually older than two of my brothers and had the memorable distinction of teaching one brother how to say "hello". Whenever we came back from a few days away, Jemma would race up to the fence and bellow "har-roh", a pronounciation Daniel (I wasn't going to embarass him, but what the hey) picked up himself!
She was a beautiful little thing - a mongrel like most of our pets - with a personality to match. Indeed, if you could say anything bad about her, it would be that she was rather fond of getting out of the yard and going walkabout.
Jemma was around 6 when we added another dog, Meila, to the menagerie. Meila was a tiny puppy - so small in fact that Dad wanted to call her Stubby on account of being able to fit in a stubby cooler - but grew large enough to avoid that "overgrown rat" status. She was one of those dogs that never backed down from a growling match, no matter how big the opposition dog was.
Our cats were pretty similar. Mim and Gypsy both had no hesitation in standing up for themselves during their times with us. Both had their troubles with attacking family members: Mim was put down after continually attacking Bryan when he was a young tacker, while Gypsy once pounced on Matt after he held her above next-door's two pig dogs!
We had a few birds as well, but the only one that remains in the memory was Peachy, a peach-faced bird (took us ages to think of that one). She came into our lives after landing on the next-door neighbour in Toowoomba. Mum put out fliers saying we'd found this obviously tamer bird, but as no-one claimed her she became ours by default. The enduring memory of Peachy has to be her perched on Bryan's shoulder as he crawled down the hallways of our Toowoomba houses.
Alas, all these have fallen by the wayside. Mum got the pets when she and Dad split up, and eventually they all succumbed to old age or wanderlust. When I left Australia almost 12 months ago neither parent had a pet; since then Mum has added a kitten that causes as much havoc as a certain Miss Hannah.
Eventually I'll settle down and stay somewhere for more than a few months: when I do a pet is pretty high up on the agenda.

The A-Z of 2006

2006-12-22T13:20:00.000+10:00

BACK by no demand whatsoever, it's my own view of the year 2006 (The Year Of The Decent Person) in 26 easy steps. This may take a while, so grab yourself a cuppa (or beer if you're lucky enough to be in Australia), turn of the phone, and enjoy...

A is for Ashes, Australia winning the
If there was one thing about last year that I wasn't really prepared for, it was England doing the unthinkable and winning the 2005 Ashes series. Since then pretty much every cricket fan in Australia has been gunning for revenge, if only to shut certain English supporters up (here's a tip guys - we've already held the Ashes and the Rugby World Cup twice. It's not unheard of). Three Tests in and Australia holds the Ashes once more!

B is for Bananas and Barrels
At various times during our training we'd talk about what the end of training party and how drunk we were going to get. "It'll be on like Donkey Kong" would often be the call. "Bananas and the barrels." Throughout the season it'd be the catchcry every time the four of us males caught up - time for the bananas and the barrels.

C is for Craziness
And gee willickers, wasn't there a fair bit of that? Whether it was staying up till all hours after a Munich pub crawl, drinking just a tipple too many in Venice or any night in Florence, there was craziness aplenty all year.

D is for Decent Person, Year of the
While 2005 was memorable in so many different ways, there were a few things it needed to improve upon. For one, it seemed like all the sleazes and creeps were the ones hooking up, while my own behaviour was at times a little off. Myself, Waters and Sandy all designated this to be the Year of the Decent Person, something which has paid off well for all of us!

E is for Extravagance
Some guides are fairly straight up and down on the microphone; some throw in some low-grade humour; and some say things like "and Germany is bordered by Poland, the Czech Republic... Dan's Mum..." I was never quite that bad, although one driver was never impressed when I kept referring to him as the "Zimbabwean Zex Zymbol"...

F is for Friends
Not the sitcom, which tormented me throughout the Busabout season as the most commonly-played series, but rather the friends I made during the year. Last year I had the chance to make friends during a two-month period on the circuit; this year it was almost the full six months. I took things a little easier this year because of my job as a guide, but still managed to make some top friends. To all of you (and the old friends as well) I once again raise my glass and wish you the best for 2007.

G is for Golf
Not that I ever got to go out and play a game this year. At one stage in St Johann in Tyrol I went with Travis x2 for a round. We all hired out bikes and were looking forward to the concept of sledging each other as much as possible. The first drama came when we realised we had to ride over a mountain or 30 (none of us being close to fit), and then when we got there everyone was dressed up, a marked change from our outfits of thongs (footwear non-Australia smartarses), footy tops and rude t-shirts. To cap it all off we went down the side of a busy highway to get back...

H is for Hell to pay
Guess which bright spark had that after being late for the coach one day?

I is for Icey-cold December
I love December. From my birthday at the start of the month through to Christmas parties, Christmas and New Year's Eve, it's basically one big drink-fest that's normally done in stinking hot weather. Not this year! It wasn't a White Christmas (indeed, hasn't snowed in London yet), but so far as my body clock goes, it's a damn sight colder than it should be!

J is for Jungfraujoch
For the uninitiated this is where you go if you want to ride the highest train, eat at the highest restaurant, post from the highest post office and urinate/defecate from the highest toilets in Europe. We got to go free as part of our training, and I tell you what, it's worth every franc (154 for a normal return trip; equivalent to about A$165). It was also the first time the Zimbabwean Zex Zymbol had seen snow...

K is for Kissing
Dunno about French kissing in the USA, but there was certainly plenty of it in Europe this year (not necessarily by me). Some attempts by some to get a kiss were nothing short of hilarious; some were a case of "them with who?!?". Lots of entertainment for the whole family...

L is for Lobbies
It seemed like half of this year was spent on the road; the other half in hotel/hostel lobbies either helping people check in or as the night porter in a 4.5 star hotel. Personally, I'd rather have spent it in newspaper rooms or radio studios, but there you go.

M is for Marriage, Friend's
Only the one this year, and a damn shame I missed it! Hamish and Leanne tied the knot in April this year while I was doing my training. Of course, if Hamish can pull in such a fine catch, there's hope for the rest of us!

N is for Nothing
Which is what was in my head one night when I had just a few too many to drink. It nearly cost me my job with Busabout and lost me the respect of my boss and is obviously not something I'm proud of. I tried following it up with No-Alcohol, but that only lasted until the guy who ran Munich's "The Crawl" spotted me in Paris. After that I was a little more circumspect when drinking on a bus night...

O is for Oktoberfest
Munich. Beer. Women walking around in revealing clothes. Nirvana? You betcha - and I got to go twice and get paid for it! It's possibly the only place in the world where it's ok to sing and dance to both the Village People's YMCA and John Denver's Take Me Home Country Road. Priceless.

P is for Port Douglas
Many people quite like Port Douglas: but then they only visit the place for a holiday. Living there's a little tougher, especially when a serve of fish and chips on the main drag won't leave much change from a $10 note (maximum $5 in just about every other place in Australia).

Q is for Queensland
To be perfectly honest, last year was shithouse so far as Queensland sporting teams go: we seriously couldn't have won a chook raffle even if we'd bought all the tickets. The Pura Cup final gave a hint of change when we racked up the small matter of 900 runs against Victoria (teeheehee), but the fun was just starting. In the State of Origin we went down to NSW 17-16 in the first game courtesy of a Brett Finch drop goal. Fast-forward to the second game and I happen to have days off in an Aussie bar in St Johann in Tyrol (Austria). The first game I'd watched in two years was the best, as Queensland shat all over NSW and won 30-6 in front of a seriously crazy Lang Park crowd. I didn't get to watch the third game, but a call back home confirmed what I needed to know: Queensland had come back again and won the series. At last!!!

R is for Relax, Stupid!
I wish I'd done that a little more in 2006. Hopefully the New Year means a new beginning, and I won't have to worry so much about money, work, the boss wanting to sack me, etc etc.

S is for Serving your country
At the time of writing I have two brothers serving with the Australian Army overseas; a friend of mine has her twin brother doing the same. While we may not agree with the reasons behind our soldiers going to certain parts of the world, we certainly wish them the best and pray for a safe return home.

T is for Traffic
And didn't we run into a shitload of that this year? We had some shockers - five hours to travel less than 100km from Dresden to the Czech border; trying to get around the Rome GRA; anytime coming into Paris. But the one that takes the cake was heading from Nice to Barcelona via Avignon. We'd hit speed for a minute or so, then wait another ten before we could go again - and this pretty much the whole way from Avignon to Barcelona. The crew on the previous bus got into Barca around 1800; we got in around 2230 after starting at 0800. Not the world's greatest birthday for Migs, and not a great one for either of us as we had to be up and at 'em by 0800 the next day!

U is for Underground, The
When I first came to London in 2005 the Underground seemed like such a wonderous thing: trains every few minutes reaching most destinations. Now I'm living in London it can be a pain in the arse, especially since it doesn't run 24-7. Also because at one point it seemed every train I wanted to get on was the first for about 15 minutes and as such was jam-packed with sweaty, stinky commuters.

V is for Victory
See A and Q for further details...

W is for World Cup
Quite possibly one of the biggest thrills of this year was being in Germany for parts of the soccer World Cup. Although I missed Australia beating Japan (being on a bus between Nice and Lauterbrunnen was a nice consolation prize), I did get to see parts of the other Australian matches. During the Australia-Brazil I broke a chair (and was recognised by about 50 passengers) when Australia came close to scoring; the Croatia match I was back in Lauterbrunnen getting completely shitfaced; and the Italy match I just managed to see in Paris (in time for the "Dive of the Century"). I also got to see the Germany vs Italy semi at the fan mile in Berlin and the France vs Italy final in Paris. In both cases the country I was in lost... damn Italians!

X is for X-Rated TV
Which is exactly what you'll get if you happen to idly flick through the free-to-air stations on Spanish TV. Seriously, it's the kind of stuff you normally get in a brown paper bag after sending $9.95 plus postage and handling to a Fyshwick address...

Y is for Young Siblings
I have a brother not far past 8 and a sister about to turn 5. I haven't seen them since March; I probably won't see them again until January 2008. I miss them both heaps, but rest assured, they're getting some pretty big hugs when I (eventually) get back!

Z is for Zimbabwean Zex Zymbol
Some people know him as the Zimmer; I made this one up; and Jules toook it one step further with the Zeductive Zlutty Zimbabwean Zlapper. Whatever you call him, he's a top bloke - the memories of celebrating his birthday in Nice then spending his actual birthday stuck in traffic for 14 hours will stay with me for a long time.

Here's to a safe 2007!

2006: The Soundtrack

2006-12-21T01:06:00.000+10:00

HAVE you ever associated a particular song with a particular event, a certain time in your life?
I do quite regularly - something that shouldn't surprise most people given most of these blog titles are lines from songs to start with.
While I seem to be saying this at the end of every year, this year truly was the most memorable. Perhaps like a good wine, I seem to be getting better with age... even showing very occasional signs of ageing!
At any rate, music has played a pretty major role this year, so without further ado, here's my soundtrack for 2006.
Enjoy.

I'm A Believer The Monkees
Then I saw her face ¦ Now I'm a believer ¦ Not a trace ¦ Of doubt in my mind
Nice, cheesy little song to open up the innings: and generally a song I'd open up with when singing karaoke in Florence. Was there anyone I would sing this about? Nope...
Disco Inferno The Trammps
Burn, baby burn ¦ Disco inferno ¦ Bern, baby Bern ¦ Disco inferno
While on the subject of cheese, this one cranking through the bus speakers every time we went into/through the Swiss capital Bern never failed to amaze. Probably the best reaction came from a girl called Kira, who completely lost it when I stood up after the song to give out info about the city and had a big cheesy grin on my face. Poor thing, it was her first day on the buses too...
Total Eclipse Of The Heart Bonnie Tyler
Once upon a time I was falling in love ¦ But now I'm only falling apart ¦ There's nothing I can do ¦ A total eclipse of the heart
Why, oh why would you include this song? It actually came up twice during the year: the latter about a month ago when I saw a guy belt it out at karaoke and everyone joined in. But the first time was during our training in April, when for some reason it became our theme song. Cue lot of shocked faces when we asked for it at the after-training party and starting belting it out ourselves.
Livin' On A Prayer Bon Jovi
We've got to hold on ¦ Ready or not ¦ You live for the fight when that's all that you've got
Scene: Red Garter nightclub, Firenze (Florence). Your truly has just finished belting out I'm A Believer when the guy running the show asks if I know how to sing this song. Somehow, improbably, it comes out well with everyone singing along. After that it became a staple of my Florentine experience, one which many others sung along to as well...
Love Generation Bob Sinclair
Why must our children play in the streets ¦ Broken hearts, and faded dreams
All our Greek Island guides have a love/hate relationship with this song. Every time it comes on it's almost compulsory for them to get up on the nearest bar/table and dance away. Also memorable because the kid in the film clip reminds me of Bob.
Hey Baby DJ Otzi
When I saw you walking down the street ¦ I said that's the kind of girl I'd like to meet
Picture this: you're leaving Munich, the beer capital of the world. Chances are you've spent the night sampling said beers, and have what's known in the industry as a hangover. You're on a coach to St Johann (and Venice) and are looking forward to a peaceful day on the coach. Right? Wrong! Once we crossed the border into Austria I'd play this, partially because DJ Otzi is from St Johann in Tirol, but mostly because that's just me.
Feel Robbie Williams
Come and hold my hand ¦ I want to contact the living ¦ Not sure I understand ¦ This role I've been given
You may be wondering why I'm including Robbie Williams in this list. There is actually a good explanation for it though. In Ireland someone lent me a copy of Chris Heath's Feel. It can be an infuriating book to read: it's more a documentary rather than a biography. At any rate, the book itself tells of a man who does well on the stage but is rather less confident off it. Worth a read.
Respect Aretha Franklin
R-E-S-P-E-C-T ¦ Find out what it means to me
This was one of those ones that only seems to come about when you're on a coach for the 18th consecutive day, you're going to get severely bullocked by the boss in two days time, and you might just be a touch stir-crazy... Great song though.
The Car Song Cat Empire
But just right now can't think of anything better to do ¦ Than to sit down at the piano and to write this tune
Upbeat and funky with just a tinge of regret. I only found out about thsi track by accident in Port Douglas when I'd 5-starred it on the iPod instead of Hello. Never mind: it's a great track.
Sounds Of Then GANGgajang
Out on the patio we sit ¦ And the humidity we breathe ¦ We watch the lightning crack over canefields ¦ I laugh and think that this is Australia
While my stint in Port Douglas wasn't all that long (six months), it was nothing short of memorable. It was in Port Douglas that I watched the Socceroos beat Uruguay in a World Cup qualifier last year (every pub on the main drag was full and pumping), while a little later on it was also there I rang in 2006. This song pretty much sums up North Queensland and would inevitably lead to homesickness.
Dancing On The Jetty INXS
Watch the world argue ¦ Argue with itself ¦ Who's going to teach me ¦ Peace and happiness
Every time this came on when on the bus I kept thinking it was a quiet track. Not the case - the start of this rock song is actually a whole lot of stringed instruments. Pertinent when you consider I spent a large part of the year watching people.
I Got You (I Feel Good) James Brown
I feel good ¦ I knew that I would now
Relevant, not just because it's what I sang to Donkey to gloat at the fact that Queensland had won the State of Origin and I'd won £10 off him, but because of James Brown's death very very late in the year. If there was a second cd I'd include Get Up (I Feel Like Being A) Sex Machine in honour of J20...
Put Your Hands Up For Detroit Fedde Le Grande
Put your hands up for Detroit
As you've probably guessed, there's not a great deal of meaning to the lyrics of this dance track. It gains inclusion in this mix because the people at the Generator hostel played it... and played it and played it and played it and played it and played it, and when they were done, they played it and played it and played it and played it...
Long Train Runnin' The Doobie Brothers
Without love, where would you be now ¦ Without love...
Nice enough track that reminds me about life on the big blue bus.
Long As I Can See The Light Creedence Clearwater Revival
Put a candle in the window ¦ 'Cause I feel I've got to move ¦ Though I'm going, going ¦ I'll be coming home soon ¦ As long as I can see the light
One day, I'm going to get jack of moving, sick of living out of a bag, tired of not knowing where I'm going to be in a month, or even a week.
One day...

London Calling...

2006-12-14T05:20:00.000+10:00

THERE'S a couple of things about London that you're never really prepared for, things that you wouldn't necessarily associate with the capital of one of the world's greatest empires, albiet more than a few years ago.
Parts to do with the local psyche that don't quite match up with the enduring stereotypes that you (ok, me) grew up with.
It's certainly not the weather. As many an English person (pom) has said, if you want nice, warm and sunny weather, you face towards England and walk the other way. It hasn't been too bad here, but I'm still not looking forward to the concept of a freezing January and February when my body clock says it's time for 30 degrees and 100 per cent humidity.
It's not the fact that the Underground is often crowded and breaks down regularly. You're always resigned to the fact that the first train you try to get on is generally the first one in 10 minutes and that 456,972 other people have decided to try the same thing at the same time. Besides, smart man notices there's a train a minute later that's often close to empty.
It's definitely not the fact that there's almost a pub on every corner. I made sure I was prepared for that concept...
No, the first fact about London that you're not prepared for is the fact that a great many of the locals are extraordinarily rude. To stand in line for a tube ticket is to feel what it's like to be a pinball, except that the flippers are more likely to apologise for sending you all kinds of places you didn't want to go.
Make eye contact or smile while on the tube and the likely response is a glare. In fact, that applies off the Tube as well: I smiled to myself about something that happened back home and a man asked rather aggressively what I was smiling at.
Put people in the front row of a comedy club and they're mre likely to tear your head off than thank you for your service.
Here I was thinking the English were polite people with manners...
But possibly the thing you're most unprepared for is the water.
Not so much the fact that so much falls from the sky - see point made above - but the fact that the water pressure is so monumentally crap.
When I first came over last year it took me half an hour to get the toilet to flush properly: you have to have the knack (and believe me, you learn quickly!). Showers are often fraught with danger as the hot water fluctuates while you're running backwards and forwards under the dribble to try and get wet.
Apparently it's because the pipes here date back to Victorian times, something they're only just fixing up.
Despite the water and some of the people, it's still a plenty special place.
Just don't use the Tube in peak hour.

I'm In London Still...

2006-11-24T02:00:00.000+10:00

I GOT very homesick last night.
Like many others travelling around the world, being homesick isn't something new. Every now and then something comes up that makes you feel like jumping on the next plane home to get back to the familiar; but by and large it passes.
But there was something about last night that seemed to make it hit home that yes, I was over this sid eof the world, and no, I wasn't going to be back home for a long time.
Unsurprisingly, it was the cricket.
The first day of the Ashes was on the idiot box, and like all good Australians with a burning desire for revenge (or to get the Poms to shut the f^ck up), I wanted to see Australia do well and regain them.
What made me homesick was that it was being held at the Gabba, which is in the Queensland city of Brisbane - where my family largely lives.
For me the first Test of the summer has always signalled the start of summer. The weather's heating up nicely and the pool is looking more and more attractive as the days roll into December. And what a month December is! My birthday at the start, Christmas parties and cricket matches the whole way through, Christmas, Boxing Day and New Year's Eve, all jammed into 31 days of pure heaven.
However this year I'll be in the UK, where the temperature is dropping (all too rapidly if you ask me), the Tests only start around midnight or so (later in some other states), and it's still at least 12 months before I see my two youngest siblings (8 and nearly 5) again.
There are bonuses though. It's said London around Christmastime is spectacular, and I do have some friends either in the area or coming back soon to make life a tick friendlier.
As for the cold, as many English say you should expect it when you come over during winter. Doesn't mean I can't whinge about it though!
Either way, this December promises to be quite the experience no matter what. Let's see how it pans out, eh?

Come On Aussie, Come On, Come On

2006-11-21T21:37:00.000+10:00

YES, it's repetitive - but certainly a lot better than that God-awful "Aussie Aussie Aussie, oi oi oi" rubbish that parts of our great country feel it necessary to foist on an all-to-suspecting world that really doesn't want to hear it again.
But the Ashes are coming, hence why the old Mojo classic should be sung with greater gusto than that two-word bore that should have died about the same time as the Olympic flame in 2000.
Actually, the Fanatics (a group of Australians that follow our sporting teams around and generally provide the most vocal support) are publishing a songbook with a series of mixed-up songs to sing back at the Poms (ok, English for those with squeamish dispositions). I'd link it, but apparently record company EMI are cracking the sads because it uses their songs as a basis, but if you Google "fanatics ashes songbook" (without the quotes) you'll get there.
But what of the game itself?
At the time of writing Australia look like they'll play Stuart Clark and Michael Clarke now that Shane Watson's been ruled out.
Watson's injury couldn't have come at a worse time, and not just for his embryonic international career (three Tests thus far).
My theory is this. Watson playing gives Australia a reasonably steady third seamer, so that he's helping out Glenn McGrath and Shane Warne by keeping things on a leash. This gives Brett Lee more chances to go all-out for a few overs at a time and make life uncomfortable for the batsmen.
But the big part of all this is that it would allow Australia to play one of Mitchell Johnson, Shaun Tait or Stuart MacGill. All three can win you matches; but by the same token they can also go for 5-6 an over.
With Watson in the team, if one of those three started going for plenty captain Ricky Ponting would still have somone fresh to stem the flow of runs.
As for the batting, Watson averages nearly 50 in first-class cricket: given the chance he could make some very handy scores down the order.
For England, they need first of all to pick Monty Panesar. He's simply head and shoulders above Ashley Giles, and can win you matches. As someone has pointed out, Giles may make 30 runs or so, but will that win you a match?
I think not.
Anyway, we'll see how things go on Thursday - come on Aussie!

I Might Arrive But I'll Be Gone The Very Next Day...

2006-11-03T23:22:00.000+10:00

AS I may have mentioned one or two thousand times before, I've just finished up travelling around Europe as a tour guide - or on-board guide as the boss would prefer us to say.

When I first mentioned I got the job (which happily coincided with my 25th birthday and Australia qualifying for the soccer World Cup), most people's first comments were along the lines that it would be a dream job with plenty of "fringe benefits" (most people were reluctant to further explain just what they thought those fringe benefits would be though).

As things turned out, it truly was the dream job. I got to travel Europe for six months (seven if you include some of the most intensive training I've ever come across), meet an absolute truckload of people (good, bad and very ugly), and generally have not just a good time, but THE best time.

I don't think I'll ever beat some of the experiences, including the following:

The night "Little John" (he's actually quite tall) and I took around 31 people into San Sebastian. While the fact that around 26 of those people were of the fairer sex does slightly come into it, I'd spent a couple of days off with a lot of them in Madrid just before heading north, while I already knew a lot of the others. A great night that finished around 0430 the next morning, with me back up at 0730 to take people to Bordeaux. The night also had a sequel when I had to come back and everyone came out again. Great nights, great people.
Swiss National Day on top of a chalet in Lauterbrunnen in Switzerland. To hear the fireworks reverberate off the Lauterbrunnen Valley was something else - even if I was a touch annoying the next day as a passenger down to Nice!
Each and every time a passnger came up to me and thanked me for doing a good job. As with anything else, it's always good to get good feedback, and even though I may have fobbed off plenty when they tried to compliment me, rest assured it was always appreciated!

But that's not to say there's weren't a few downers.

Discounting the times I brought things on myself (late-night drinking, late for coach etc), the job was at a very basic level a series of one-night stands with thousands of different people. Whereas as a passenger you generally kept catching up with people, as a guide any plans to catch up may be derailed at any time if the boss decides to change your sequence (around six times for August).

Meet someone special and your reward is a series of text messages or e-mails in an effort to stay in touch. Make great friends, and say goodbye each time you leave because you just don't know when or if you'll ever see them again.

But I digress. It truly was the dream job - you only had to see people's faces light up when they saw you sitting in the front seat to realise that yep, might just've done good.

It's Good News Week...

2006-10-20T04:53:00.000+10:00

YES ladies and gentlemen, I'm now in the process of re-acquainting myself with the wonders of world after nearly seven months wrapped up in the coccoon that was my job.
And what a seven months it's been! Possibly the biggest (and certainly least expected) news story during that time would have to be the untimely passing of Steve Irwin after a stingray got a bit scared of the khaki suit swimming above it. Most people will remember where they were when they heard Irwin died. In my case it was at a services stop between Nice and Avignon in southern France on the same day I heard my brother was being posted overseas and my boss found out I'd fucked up in a very big way. Although everyone probably expected Irwin to go by death by wildlife, who'dve thunk a stingray would do the trick? Coincidentally a US man is in a critical condition after a stingray jumped on his boat and stabbed him. Seems they have the taste of blood...
Soon after Australia was hit by the death of motor-racing legend Peter Brock, again doing something he loved doing (Cagey, please keep your hands off yourself). Seems bizarre to think they're both gone, but that's the way of the world.
UK readers will probably have kept up to date with the Big Brother 7 fun and games - even at a distance they've seemed somewhat unreal: which, it turns out, it was. The big-name couple has split up, which registers a 0.000000001 on the shock-o-meter. I mean really, who'dve thought that a relationship with tens of millions of people watching their every move (and that was when they were out of the house) would last? Plenty apparently.
Then of course there's been the fun and games associated with "Brangelina" - the unholy beast formed when Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie hooked up. I know they're both very famous people, and that between them they've probably stimulated more fantasies amongst the people of the world than marijuana, but seriously, calm down people!
Throw in the 2006 World Cup where Australia was finally making it's follow-up appearance to their 1974 World Cup. Some good performances against some quality teams meant we got through to the round of 16, only to be denied by some incredible diving from the Italians. Seriously, these guys are like the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers - get within three feet and they'll jump around like a dying kangaroo.
Then there was the truly frightening news that North Korea had got itself a nuke. These guys are so scary and unpredictable that they make Saddam Hussein look like a meek little pussy cat. Of all the countries in the world that we know have nukes, these are the fuckers most likely to give the world the collective finger and fire away.
Hopefully now that I've re-emerged back into Reality, things will start going back to normal - starting with Australia winning back the Ashes. Now that'd be useful!

What Do You Get When You Fall In Love?

2006-10-19T03:05:00.000+10:00

liALL you get is lies and pain and sorrow; to paraphrase the immortal Burt Bacharach and Hal David.
One of the interesting facets of travelling around Europe and meeting an absolute truckload of people is that there are times when you get to see them at their most human, their most vunerable.
Sometimes this is when something bad has happened - like when a passport goes missing - although the majority of the time it's when someone is around a member of the opposite sex they quite fancy.
Gone may be the devil-may-care attitude that normally applies, replaced with a bumbling attitude that often causes the object of their affections to forget what it was that was attractive about them in the first place. Likewise, two shy people may begin to really open up after meeting each other: a match made in heaven so to speak. Seeing someones face light up when they talk about their absent other half is something everyone should be made to watch when they're feeling blue (unless it's because of a break-up of course. Then it's penguin videos!).
What really gets my back up though are people cheating or generally being dishonest.
I have to say this partially comes from the bitter personal experience of seeing a marriage close to me disintegrate because one person couldn't stay faithful for whatever reason, while I've seen many another person almost in tears because someone they had feelings showed blatant disregard for them.
No matter what the problems are in a relationship*, it seems cowardly to just write it off without concern for the other party. If they're making an effort to patch things up, the other person needs to be honest and call time face-to-face.
Too many people begin agreeing with Bacharach and David's lyrics at the start of this post otherwise.

*Yes Cagey, I'm aware of the fact that me giving relationship advice is like asking George W. Bush for help in an IQ test...

The Heat Is Off...

2006-03-14T23:32:00.000+10:00

YOU can (and many people do) say a lot of things about Port Douglas.
I can now add to that list: six months in North Queensland's swankiest town does NOT prepare you for English weather.
Then again there's very little in Australia that can prepare you for England in general. For one, the Aussie dollar isn't quite worthless but approaching that stage; the people can dress rather inappropriately for the climatic conditions; and most disturbingly, the beer is warm.
Come to think of it, it's easy to see the appeal of warm beer in cold weather. This doesn't absolve the English completely, but does give a reason for what many Australian would consider a crime against humanity.
As would be expected, the people are a lot different too. In London it's only tourists and expats that start conversations on the Tube, while out in Cheltenham at least the girls got around in tiny skirts and singlet tops. To give an idea of how cold it was, when we walked home it was through the snow...
There are, though, many good things about England. For one, they don't fuck around with their Sunday pub roasts. They can be very friendly (if hard to understand sometimes), and are as fond of a drink or thirty as those from thirstier climes.
Now if I could understand just why Neighbours, Peter Andre and Fosters are so popular over here, I'd be a lot happier...

Don't Press Your Luck...

2006-02-22T13:40:00.000+10:00

THE headlines should have, at the very least, piqued an interest.
Most Australian news websites lead with the story of how five teenagers had been killed and at least seven injured in a car accident in Victoria.
That's sad. Who won the footy?
It wasn't until later on when my Mum called, almost in tears, and asked if my cousins had been among those affected in the accident that it dawned on me: the accident was near Mildura, a place with some significance for my family as it's kind of where Dad's family lives (to explain fully would take too long).
Thankfully none of my relatives were there when the accident occurred, but that doesn't mean they didn't know those killed.
Bit close for comfort.
In the aftermath of the accident - in which Shane Hirst (16), Abby Hirst (17), Stevie-Lee Weight (15), Cassandra Manner (16) and Cory Dowling (16) died instantly and Josephine Calvi (16) in Royal Adelaide Hospital the next day - many in Mildura and the surrounding towns are trying to come to terms with losing so many young people that, in normal circumstances, would be enjoying their youth.
From the reports that have come out, it seems as though the accident happened when a car lost control, crashing into the group walking along the side of the road. A man has been charged and is in custody.
What the whole thing does rather painfully show is that a vehicle can be a lethal weapon. Most will have stories about a how a driver thought he'd (and it is generally a he) test his limits on a corner and "came that close to losing it man".
Occasionally the person will push their luck a little bit too far. Sometimes they can walk away; sometimes their families are left wondering why.
But what happens when someone pushes their luck near a group of people?
Have a look at the photo published on The Age website in one of their stories about the accident and the aftermath. It shows Stevie-Lee, Cassandra and Josephine smiling for the camera, just hours before someone pushed their luck a little bit too far.
Bad move.

Cheer Up Sleepy Jean...

2006-02-17T18:50:00.000+10:00

WE DID some bad karaoke the other night.
Actually, I'm beginning to wonder whether or not there is any other kind of karaoke to begin with. Sure, there are people who can actually sing and sing well, but for reason the fun goes out of it then. I mean, who wants to sing just after Celine Dion's got up and belted out a few classics (or even be in the room after she's finished)?
The night compared favourably to Sunday night, where Australian Torah Bright not only failed to win a snowboarding gold in Turin, but the pub that has a big sign up advertising Sunday karaoke was closed for the night.
Bastards.
In the end it was a bit like a spotty teenager about to swap seminal fluids for the first time: we talked about how great it was going to be, what we were going to try, who'd be the best etc.
End result? One giant fizzle.
It's always interesting watching people sing karaoke, or even deliberate whether they're going to sing in the first place.
Such a person always begins the night by saying flat out there's no way known they're getting up and singing, they're really really bad at it and everyone will leave if they do sing.
A few drinks later, singing goes from being a definite no to a maybe so; many more drinks later confirms that our intrepid hero really is, in fact, a crap singer. But they get up and have a go.
This is a hell of a lot better than one friend who actually did a runner just before we got up to sing. One minute he's there, next minute he's disappeared faster than Harold Holt swimming in Portsea.
Me? I never have much trouble getting up and singing (Frank Sinatra's New York, New York, Elton John's Crocodile Rock and The Monkees Daydream Believer for those playing at home). Reports vary as to the quality, from the Cagey "you're shit" to the "yeah, you're not too bad" (anyone wishing to compare should listen to when I sing with a brother).
All in all though it's generally a fun night out (especially while drunk) - except when people keep singing Britney Spears!

The Great Debate Begins...

2006-02-09T18:57:00.000+10:00

THIS weekend the first round of the expanded Super 14 competition kicks off. Of particular interest to many will (in Australia at least) will be new team Western Force playing the ACT Brumbies at home, while the Queensland Reds host the NSW Waratahs at the Ground Formerly Known As Lang Park.
The 'Tahs have never won in Brisbane in the old Super 12; mind you they had never beaten Queensland full stop until last year.
But this post isn't about that.
No, with the start of the Super 14 signalling we're about to hit colder weather, it's time to dust off the old arguments as to which is the better football code.
Given that you're never going to be able to get a cross-section of people to agree on what's the better code (unless they're all from Victoria), SAJ Stuff is now proud to present the pros, cons and otherwise about the major football codes...

Australian Rules Football
A strange game originally invented to keep cricketers fit during the winter. Described as "aerial ping-pong" by those from north of the Murray, the object of the game is to kick an oval ball between some posts. Points scored depend on which set of posts you kick it through.
Strengths: Is a fast-moving, sometimes very free-flowing game. Players need to be able to catch a ball, run with a ball and kick a ball, sometimes all at once.
Weaknesses: In wetter conditions can resemble a game of "stacks on" rather than a skillful ball game. Some also bemoan the lack of really big hits, and the fact that with four posts to kick between, Aussie rules is the only code where you get points for missing. Lack of representative games at highest level also hurts.
Trivia: The Melbourne Australian Rules Football Club is reckoned to be the oldest football club - of any code - in the world.

Rugby League
A professional version of rugby union set up largely because union was amateur for a great many years. Going great guns in Australia until Rupert Murdoch's Super League came and ballsed things up in 1995. Players try to put the ball over the opposition line for a try.
Strengths: Easily the most popular (in terms of crowd support and TV numbers) of the football codes in NSW and Queensland. Big hits, especially in the State of Origin, always provide a highlight. Recent improvements by New Zealand finally give Australia some competition.
Weaknesses: Game seems to have a problem with players and alcohol combining then ganging up on XX-chromosoned people. Short-sightedness during the Super League era meant that teams in Perth and Adelaide had three and two years respectively in which to start making finals. They didn't, so they got cut, leaving league fans bewildered. Recent improvements by New Zealand means they can now win things and gloat even more when they beat Australia.
Trivia: Former Australian cricket great Victor Trumper helped form the NSW Rugby League back in 1908 as players looked to play a game where they would be paid compensation if they were injured.

Rugby Union
Newly professional game trying to shake off its amateur roots. Has grown in Australia recently, as shown by the newly-formed Western Force entering the expanded Super 14 competition. A code where winning the World Cup actually means something. Like rugby league, players try to plant the ball over the opposition line, although the English prefer to get someone like Jonny Wilkinson to kick it over the crossbar every time the other teams fouls.
Strengths: This is a truly multi-national sport. Australia (twice), New Zealand, South Africa and England have all won the World Cup, with Wales, France, Ireland and Argentina below them. The Super 12 competition attracted a lot of fans, with more expected with the expanded comp.
Weaknesses: Recent losses by the Wallabies means that it's not just the Poms and Kiwis laughing at us: it's the Welsh, French and South Africans as well. Game can be very boring when teams just go for the three points for a penalty as opposed to the potential seven for a try and conversion (not pointing the finger at anyone, but the English know who they are).
Trivia: In the World Cup teams play for the William Webb Ellis Trophy, which is named after the bloke who got jack of playing soccer, picked the ball up and began running with it, an event considered the birth of rugby.

Soccer
Yes, I know most countries call it football, but when you've got another three codes of football it's a good idea to differentiate between them. Soccer is played by so many countries that to even make the World Cup is an achievement in itself (just ask the Socceroos!).
Strengths: With so many countries playing, it's easy for a half-decent player to travel the world, plying his/her trade. Also the hardest World Cup to win - only teams from Europe and South America have actually managed it. Also benefits from being so easy to play - all you need is a kickable round ball.
Weaknesses: Some players appear to be under the misapprehension that they're trying out for national diving squads by jumping three metres in the air every time someone's foot gets near their own. Others pretend they're Mafia bosses by surrounding the ref every time a decision goes against them.
Trivia: Much to the disbelief of every Englishman, the last time Australia and England played the Socceroos ran out 3-1 winners. In England. The English also failed to get past the might of Northern Ireland in 2005, losing 1-0 in Belfast.

So there you have it folks: all the facts. So which is the better code? Post the best comment and you could win some hearty congratulations...

We Are One, But We Are Many...

2006-02-01T18:24:00.000+10:00

RACISM.
It's an ugly word, isn't it? Very ugly - yet it's been all over the news here in Australia recently.
First off we had the Cronulla riots, where a big angry mob decided to beat the living shit out of anyone who looked like they were Middle Eastern, followed up by another big angry mob that decided to beat the living shit out of anything and everything.
Just when that little escapade was over, the South African cricket team popped in for a visit and were welcomed with a few questionable comments. Reports have also come through that some of the Sri Lankan players were also racially abused, although coach Tom Moody denies this is the case.
One story in today's Sydney Morning Herald gave an example of racial abuse by a group of supporters at the Sydney Cricket Ground (SCG). This really is looking glum, eh?
Yet as many who have met Australians or been to Australia would know, these people are in the minority. Cricket Australia chief executive James Sutherland described the trouble at the cricket as "shameful behaviour of maybe half a dozen half-wits". Chances are you can add that they were pissed as a fart as well.
Yet at the one game I've attended at the SCG, the spectators where I was generally had a bloody good time. The game was close (decided by a Brett Lee 6 with three balls to go), and supporters from both sides enjoyed cheering when their team did well. The only downer for mind was when one of the young couple next to me started calling the Indians "curry-munchers", to which I protested. Everyone had had fun without resorting to that level: why stoop there now? For the record when Lee hit the 6 all the Aussies stood as one and chanted "look at the scoreboard!" instead of some stereotypical rubbish. As I say, a great day out.
But these are minor compared to the problems Sydney is having with a certain sub-section of its community.
It has been said that the reason a bunch of drunk "Anglos" went and beat up "wogs" was becase groups of young males had been harassing beach-goers in Cronulla.
The Cooma-Monaro Express' infamous Snowman put the differences between Sydney and Cooma rather bluntly:

"ISN'T it amazing? In Cronulla we have gangs of so-called Australian bashing and harassing "lebs" or anyone who might be of middle eastern descent. In Cooma, we have gangs of people rushing to a Lebanese restaurant for completely different reason - the food and hospitality are top-notch."
"WE might have to put up with some limitations in the bush, but at least in Cooma, we appreciate multiculturalism and embrace the differences which make life more interesting."

Of course, the riot sparked the inevitable revenge attacks, where witnesses say they were too scared to confront the men, while debate rages about how much the police have done to try and apprehend those involved in the revenge attacks (as opposed to the earlier, televised attacks).
These young hoons (calling them men would be an affront to men everywhere) say that they are "Lebs" (Lebanese), and that women wearing revealing clothing is against their culture.
Yet Lebanese-born Joseph Wakim makes a very good point in the Sydney Morning Herald when he says:

"There is a perception that if offenders label themselves as Lebanese, rather than Australian, then we should treat them accordingly. However, there is nothing Lebanese about their behaviour. Ask anyone who has been to Lebanon, or watch Lebanese TV. The local youths in question are a hybrid subculture akin to the chick-chasing characters portrayed in Fat Pizza."

"They over-identify with the American rappers and their themes of rejection, victimhood and revenge. Their attire - baggy jeans, brand-name jackets, athletics shoes and baseball cups - represents their hip-hop heroes. The Bankstown boys are more likely to blend into the Bronx than Beirut. In Lebanon, their behaviour would not be tolerated. They would be rejected as shameful misfits and deported back to Australia."

Last I checked, you could choose your nationality. Last I checked, being Australian means that you're tolerant of other people.

In this blog I make a lot of references to songs, and the one mentioned in the title of this post is perhaps the one we should remember (and even one to sing during the World Cup in Germany later this year). I'll only link to the lyrics here (PDF file), but here's the chorus:

We are one, but we are many

And from all the lands on Earth we come

We share a dream, and sing with one voice

I am, you are, we are Australian.

Sums it up for me.

Crashing's Not Compulsory, But...

2006-01-30T17:33:00.000+10:00

I'VE just come back from a fairly lengthy road trip down some of Australia's busiest highways: the Pacific Highway linking Brisbane and Sydney and part of the Hume Highway linking Sydney and Melbourne.
Both these highways have reputations for being quite dangerous, and with good reason: according to figures on an NRMA website, 453 people died on the Pacific Highway and 153 on the Hume Highway between 1994 and 2003 (figures from the NSW-run RTA, which would suggest Queensland and Victorian fatalities were not included).
If this seems like a lot, rest assured you're not alone.
But why would the fatalities (and "regular" crashes for that matter) be so high? Simple fact is that neither abovementioned highway is dual carriageway (four lanes; two each way).
It seems silly and it is: Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane are the three largest cities in Australia (around 4.2 million, 3.5 million and 1.7 million respectively). The Pacific Highway itself had just under 10,000 crashes between 1994 and 2003, a figure which you'd think would encourage politicians of all colours to fund upgrades.
Nope.
This archived article on the Sydney Morning Herald website suggests that while they may fast-track the upgrades of the Pacific Highway, this could be funded by a toll on non-local road users. Apparently private sector funding is needed to speed the whole thing up.
Let's check those figures again: nearly 10,000 crashes in 10 years.
Given the cost to the state and national economies of people recovering or grieving after accidents, you would think that both governments would be fighting over who was going to chip in the most, but no.
Of course it isn't any government's fault that there are so many crashes: John Howard or Morris Iemma aren't driving all those cars.
What isn't helping is the idiotic behaviour of many on the road, especially those sections where you have to wait for overtaking lanes to safely get past those going a bit slower.
Theoretically these cars should be doing the same speed throughout (obviously a touch quicker downhill), but this isn't always the case.
One idiot (there really is no other way to describe him) would do 90-95km/h normally, only to speed up to 105-110km/h when there was an overtaking lane. Given the speed limit on that stretch of road was 100km/h, it wasn't very bright at all. I ended up hitting 120km/h to get past and save myself the indignity of a heart attack at 25.
There were others that felt being overtaken was a personal affront and would do their best to stop you overtaking, and then those who just had to be difficult at every available opportunity.
So here's the challenge: for state and federal governments to fix up the highways, and for road users to use a bit of common sense.
It'll cut the toll.

And Now For Something Not Entirely Unexpected...

2006-01-13T13:02:00.000+10:00

IN a move that can best be described as stupid, cinemas in Townsville and Rockhampton won't be showing the new Heath Ledger movie Brokeback Mountain.
They haven't given a full explanation as to why this is so, but apparently it's not because no-one likes Heath Ledger there, but rather because it tells the tale of two male cowboys who fall in love. With each other.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Onya guys. Just when we thought it was safe to say you're a Queenslander after Sir Joh died and Pauline Hanson faded back to nothing, a few clowns have come out and shown once again that when it comes to good old-fashioned idiots, the rest of the country's got nothing on us.
Oh sure, NSW had the wonderful Bob DoesntdriveaCarr, who seemed to think that NSW stood for Newcastle, Sydney, Woollongong; Victoria's given us Jeff Kennett and Eddie Maguire; while every other state chips in with a few mass murderers and the occasional ultra-conservative.
Seriously, it must have been agreed upon when Australia became a country in 1901: NSW and Victoria will provide most of the political leaders, Queensland will provide the freaks.
Jokes aside though, what's more concerning is the censorship issue.
It seems every time a controversial movie comes out, a group of self-important people (let's call them People Against Other People Having A Good Time, or PAOPHAGT) decide that society will fall if the movie is released to the general public.
Most of these movies have gratuitous sex, nudity, violence or (shock horror) people kissing people of the same sex.
"Our children will be corrupted," they cry out fervently. "What if our children see this?"
Yes, it would be really bad if your children saw a breast. Terrible, really. Who knows what might go through their minds.
Of course, this all overlooks that fact that if a movie is rated R (18 and over only), children can't go in and see it. Considering I've twice had my id checked to see M and MA movies (15 and over; both times when I was past 18), I fail to see how masses of teenagers are going to be able to get in, let alone impressionable children.
A family friend of ours had a very good policy with her kids when it came to higher-rated movies. Anything with a lot of violence was out, but with sex or nudity was in, largely on the basis that sex and nudity is a natural part of life, whereas violence wasn't.
I happen to think that American football is one of the most boring games in the world, but I'm not going to tell adults they shouldn't watch it because of my views.
If you don't like something or don't agree with it, don't watch it. But don't stop me from watching it either.

Postscript:
In another article on the Sydney Morning Herald website, Roadshow Films has denied it won't be releasing the film in Townsville and Rockhampton, going against earlier comments from cinema operations.

The A-Z Of 2005...

2005-12-29T15:35:00.000+10:00

WELL folks, that's 2005 nearly over, with not a great deal happening in the world.
Actually, I'm lying like a politician just before an election: apart years where there were additions or subractions to the family, 2005 has been easily the most memorable out of the 25 that the world has had to put up with my presence.
There were trips overseas, job-quittings, rumours, disputes, drinking, movie-themes, searches for people in strange places, drinking, cricket, trains, planes, automobiles, drinking, stalkers, South American mating movements, budgie-smugglers, drinking, topless women, drinking, internet follies and drinking.
Might have been some drinking in there somewhere as well.
Anyway, in honour of the year, I've put together the A-Z of 2005.

A is for Ashes, Australia losing the.
I admit, it had to happen eventually. Australia held the Ashes since 1989, and had rarely looked like giving them back ever since. England had been steadily improving, but weren't expected to win them back.
Until I visited England that is.
We won't go into too much detail, but needless to say the ribbing I copped while over there wasn't what I was expecting as Australia's batsmen all decided it was a good time to stop scoring runs.
A special thanks as well to the MCC media person, who only answered enquiries about my media pass application for the First Test the day before, despite getting the application in on time.

B is for Batting, try to hit the winning runs while.
It's every cricketer's dream: the last ball of the match, one run to win and you on strike. The field is in, but there's nobody back for the straight hit over the top, so why not try that eh?
The fielders are all on their toes as the bowler comes in and releases the ball. The batsman (me) takes a few steps down the pitch, takes an almighty swing... and hits it straight back to the bowler, who then takes the bails off for a tie. Got pissed that night anyway.

C is for Cooma, Canadians and clubs.
After nearly two years in town, I've now left Cooma. I'd like to say there's nothing but happy memories there, and while I will cherish some of the friendships I made, I can't say that it was all peaches and cream. One of the strangest things was that while I got the respect of most the community, I couldn't say that about the people I worked with.
Along with Australians, Canadians would have to have been the most represented group of people I met while travelling. Despite the fact they get a bit of stick from Americans, I reckon they've got to be one of the friendliest groups of people going around, even if they do say "aboot". And just like Australians, they all seemed to come from one or two places: Toronto or British Columbia, although I did meet two girls from country Saskatchewan. True story.
Finally to clubs, which I hereby declare I loathe.When it comes to going somewhere for a night out, just give me some of that rock 'n' roll music, any old way you choose it, gotta back beat you can't lose it, any old time you use it, gotta be rock 'n' roll music, if you want to dance with me.

D is for Dave.
They reckon you haven't had a night out in Australia unless it involves some kind of drunken story with a bloke named Dave. I know of at least two girls who definitely had that, although whether they'd be wanting to repeat the dose is doubtful.

E is for Elegance.
Something rather lacking after pretty much any big night out.

F is for Friendships.
Those who travel get to make lots and lots of different friends: even one as socially inept as yours truly. It's part of the reason some people never stop travelling, but more importantly, it enriches your life to no end. So to all my new friends from this year (and the old ones for that matter), I raise a glass in salute.

G is for Great Barrier Reef, The.
One glaring omission from my life experiences was cut the other day when I went scuba-diving on the Great Barrier Reef. We went out to the outer reef: so far out in fact that you could see the waves breaking on the very far edge. The light was poor, it was raining and the ride out was hairy to say the least, but I tell you what, it's worth every cent.

H is for Hamish.
During the year some of you may have noticed certain abusive sentences about a certain New Zealander who thinks he's a Pom. Every time Australia lost at something (and gosh, didn't we lose at a lot of things this year?) Hamish would be first in with a text message. Given this year was so shit sporting-wise, I reckon I'll have plenty back at him next year...

I is for Iceland, girls from.
In Venice a group of us sat around, singing songs while someone played guitar (as usual I was looked on to provide most of the lyrics). There were a group of girls from Iceland there as well, stunningly beautiful in the Northern European way. One of them told me everyone should go out with an Icelandic girl once because they took all the beautiful people from Ireland. I said she should go out with an Australian male once because we're at home Down Under. She left after that.

J is for Jumping for balls.
During the trip I played in two sand sports, scoring the most goals in beach soccer at Venice and jumping around like a kangaroo on cocaine during beach volleyball in Ireland. It was during the second one that one jump came off wrongly: I tripped as I went to dive, and didn't just fall on level sand but into a hole thoughtfully dug earlier seemingly for that very purpose. Got out ok, and still lost the match to a team that included a couple of Kiwis (when will the humiliation stop?!?)

K is for Kissing in dorms.
There's nothing worse than hearing a couple going at it when you're trying to sleep; unless of course you've picked up yourself.

L is for Lying, Lord's and London.
Actually, the only thing worse than that is when someone lies to blame someone else for their own actions.
Lord's is considered the home of cricket, and as such was the only place I just had to go to during my time overseas. That it is in London was a bonus, which also happens to contain a few backpacker pubs where there was much drinking, or in one person's case, chucking on the floor of a dorm in a hostel we weren't even staying in.

M is for Man-Whore.
Davo, Matt and Braddles are the other members of this exclusive Port Douglas community. Members can be found by greeting each other with "Davo. Man-Whore." etc etc.

N is for No way I'm doing that.
Of course we nearly always did.

O is for Oh my goodness I can't believe he just did that.
Whether it was impersonating Steve Irwin to try and pick up, trying to hustle money while playing pool or dancing in just a g-string, everything was pretty much covered (not all by me I must add).

P is for Pub crawls.
And didn't everyone get completely f*cked up on those?

Q is for Questioning looks.
Especially when you fail to take heed of welcoming looks from members of the opposite sex.

R is for Rome.
Some people think of Romans, really old buildings and the Roman Catholic Church when they think of Rome; I think of a crap karaoke competition, cheap beer and a small set of speakers. Not to mention worrying the hell out of the entertainment coordinator who thought I hated him.

S is for Searching.
But not in the way you may think. In Prague I was talking to Susan and some Danish students when Yeliz went missing. Two hours and a massive search later we still hadn't found her, so I crashed in Susan's dorm, waking up when Yeliz made it back (and was met with an impressive bitchkreig). Meanwhile back at my hostel Tash had begun her own search after I didn't come back with everyone else. All ended well.

T is for Teasing.
How to get guys offside in four easy steps. Step one: find a good-looking guy. Step two: hit onto him. Step three: dance suggestively and play ten rounds of tonsil hockey. Step four: drop him cold. Saying that men do it is no excuse either peoples.

U is for Unknown.
Which is pretty much what Europe was until this year.

V is for Venice.
Home of canals, romance, beach soccer and toga parties, even if I missed the toga parties.

W is for Wales.
Went with Hamish to Cardiff to watch the Wales vs New Zealand rugby match. The Kiwis won (dammit!), but most memorable was the Welsh singing before the game, and the Welsh people who kept buying me pints of Guinness even though I was less than halfway through the previous one. Spent the train trip back asleep in the toilet.

X is for X-ray vision, people wishing they had.
Although why people would want to see other people's skeletal structures is beyond me.

Y is for Yellow.
As you can see I'm running out of things to say, which brings me to...

Z is for Zzzzzzzzz....
Although I'm hoping I haven't sent you to sleep.

Anyway, hope you've had a top 2005, and here's hoping everyone has a sensatioanl 2006.

'Tis The Season To Be Jolly...

2005-12-21T11:39:00.000+10:00

CHRISTMAS is almost upon us.
Actually, you should already know that, what with the Christmas carols blaring out the radio, Christmas decorations in the stores, airline prices going up quicker than bank balances going down, etc etc.
This Christmas is significant to me: it's only the second I've spent away from either parent and the fifth without a younger sibling(s) to share the moment and/or annoy the hell out of me. I had planned on heading down to Brisbane for the inevitable family functions, but aforementioned plane tickets and work commitments have combined to keep me in sunny Port Douglas. Good thing is though that the hostel is doing a feed for us "orphans", so it's not like any of us will be alone.
Fortunately Mum's sent up the Christmas presents; unfortunately I'm barred from opening them until Christmas Day. I can guess a few of them by feeling and holding them up to the light, but there's two packages that I have no idea about. Needless to say it's driving me crazy.
When we were kids the presents were only ever put out on Christmas Eve. Early Christmas morning Matt and I would bolt to the tree, have a look at the various presents in our names, look eagerly at the Christmas stocking, eat a token Weetbix (had to have breakfast), then attack the lollies with great gusto.
The younger two would generally be up by this stage as well, and we'd all be comparing box sizes until Dad came out and told us to leave them alone until they were handed out. This would take waaaay too long (had to wait for all the grown-ups to wake up and get dressed), but eventually Dad would dole out the presents one by one to the sounds of delighted kids or the occasional "what's this?".
I can still remember the last Christmas we had with Grandma before she passed on. Of course we didn't know it would be our last Christmas with her: she had just turned 49 and was as bubbly as ever.
We have photos of the day, although given the horrid clothes and even worse glasses I was wearing at the time I'm yet to be convinced that I need to see them again. Maybe the ones without me in them!
The following year we made a long-overdue trek to Mildura for our first (and so far last) Christmas down there with Dad's family; another nine months later and after a brain tumour had robbed her of pretty much everything, she was gone.
Then there was the last Christmas where Mum and Dad were together. It was up at Grandad's property in Nanango, we took the dogs (who delighted in sleeping on the stretchers and running around trying to kill the chooks), my aunt did the bolt with her step-brother, and my uncle showed once and for all he doesn't have the body figure to play Santa Claus.
In recent times either Hannah or Liam have handed out the presents, and one time at Dad's we had a massive game of street cricket that was memorable for the fact that Matt couldn't catch to save his life, with or without a beer in his hand. Come to think of it, neither could anyone.
To me, this is what Christmas is about. Not the presents (although I do enjoy getting enough clothes in December for my birthday and Christmas to not buy any for the rest of the year), but the fun had with those nearest and dearest; be they friends, family, or that strange kid who kept hitting my leg-breaks next-door.
Merry Christmas.

I Am, But These Pricks Aren't Australian...

2005-12-12T08:28:00.000+10:00

TWO recent events in Sydney have shown both the good and the bad of modern Australian society.
Let's start with the good, because the bad is a fucking disgrace.
At Telstra Stadium (formerly Stadium Australia, the main stadium during the 2000 Olympics) on November 16, the Australian soccer team (the Socceroos) qualified for their first World Cup in 31 years after beating Uruguay in a penalty shoot-out. Photos after the events showed Australians of all backgrounds dancing in the streets to celebrate the fact that their team had finally made it through.
And why wouldn't you describe as their team? As Michael Cockerill said in the Sydney Morning Herald the next day:

In a multicultural nation in a fractured world, the Socceroos can bring together the sum of their parts: Muslim, Catholic, Orthodox, Anglican. German, Lebanese, Polynesian, Croatian, Italian, Melanesian, Greek. It is a rich tapestry but last night they - and we - were one thing only. Australian.

While that may have been the case nearly a month ago, it certainly wasn't yesterday.

After a disgraceful attack on two lifesavers last weekend in Cronulla, on Sydney's southside, text messages and e-mails had been flying around, urging "Anglos" (those of European, mainly English, extraction) to get revenge on the "Lebs" (which basically means anyone who looks Middle Eastern).

Sure enough, large groups of people gathered at Cronulla throughout the day - at first peacefully, before the effects of alcohol, sunshine and testosterone combined. Beginning with one man being punched around 11am, the mob surged every time they saw a person of Middle Eastern appearance, attacking them with fists, beer bottles, cowardice. No one that looked like a "wog" was spared - not even young girls. One "hero" even ripped off a girl's headscarf as she tried to get to safety.

Of course this racist show of aggression wasn't going to go unpunished by those who felt their brethren had been attacked. So we then had the fun of more testosterone-filled hoons attacking the original mob or burning the Australian flag.

Onya guys. Between both groups, you've successfully managed to get the ugliest part of any society into the world news, managed to undo any good work the Socceroos victory had achieved, managed to get your revenge(s) in the most despicable way possible.

But you know what the absolute pits was?

The original mob draped themselves in Australian flags and sung the Australian national anthem while beating the crap out of people they didn't consider Australian enough.

Excuse me?

What do they want: a return to the white-bread Australia, where a special meal was meat and three veg instead of the usual two? And anyway, why does it matter when one's ancestors came over here? If that were the case, then those idiots that started the trouble yesterday would absolutely revere our indigenous people as being the most Australian of them all, although if many of them could even spell "indigenous" or "Aboriginal" I'd be surprised.

If you're going to use OUR flag and OUR national anthem, do it somewhere that's going to help national pride. And for those from both sides that participated in the riots: don't bother cheering for the Socceroos in Germany next year.

You've clearly shown you're not Australian.

Girls On The Avenue...

2005-12-11T12:50:00.000+10:00

I LOVE people-watching.
Work is located upstairs with a verandah overlooking the main street, so on those nights when I decide not to go out and make a spectacle of myself it's often good fun to watch the people go by.
Pubs are good for these as well. Just by walking along said main street you get the chance to watch the locals sit around and talk shit, then kick on next door as everyone that's out piles in and makes a beeline for the dancefloor.
There you get to see older men and women who look like they just escaped from the local pound shake their bodies in a way that's more suggestive of a South American bird's mating patterns than anything that actually fits the song being played.
Just about every night there's a group of younger women taking advantage of a night out with the girls, which largely consists of getting themselves so plastered they get poured into a taxi rather than getting in of their own accord. These women are usually responsible for any pinched male arses.
Then there's the younger men.
These range from 18-year-olds with an inflated sense of maturity and coolness; the packs of men who seem to have a very good time jumping around and knocking your beer out of the glass; and the men whose sole purpose is to get laid.
Can there be anything more funny than a man (or woman for that matter) who just won't take no for an answer?
The other night our group was treated to a rather determined effort by one chap to get into the pants of an English tourist.
The guy tried so hard. He spoke to his "target" continuously, tried a few moves on the dancefloor, and generally made sure that she was never out of his sight.
It wasn't until she went to bed without inviting him that he gave up, a forlorn figure at the top of the stairs finally realising it just wasn't going to happen.
Of course it got kinda scary when he spent the next day stalking her and her friend, but that's another story.
Twice on my European travels I saw someone go in for the kill; twice they were knocked back.
Actually that should be three times, given that two guys were both trying to get a kiss of a fair maiden (not) during one particularly drunken night in Nice. Time after time either of the two would lean in for the magic moment that would make the night unforgettable; time after time she would move her head back as far as possible and reject their advances.
The other time saw a girl trying desperately hard to begin a few rounds of tonsil hockey with my mate, who at the time was in a state of emotional turmoil. Every time you looked at them she had her head tilted, eyes closed, lips in readiness. Never got the message.
Then there's the guy at the hostel whose eyes light up every time he sees a XX-chromosoned person.
Never mind the fact that he's in his forties with the most ridiculous ponytail you could imagine, there's rarely a girl at the hostel that hasn't had "Fabio" unleash his charms on. Most politely listen and get out of there as soon as possible, although the smarter ones let him pay for a few drinks before bolting.
People. If you can't beat 'em, watch 'em.

The Drugs Don't Work...

2005-11-29T13:34:00.000+10:00

WHY on Earth would you try to take drugs in or out of South-East Asia?
Countries like Singapore, Indonesia and Malaysia have pretty strict anti-drug laws (you're cuaght, you're dead), yet stories here in Australia have told of four different groups or individuals who've gambled with authorities and come off second best.
The earliest of the four was Nguyen Tuong Van, who was caught with 396 grams of heroin at Singapore's Changi Airport in 2002. Van had agreed to smuggle the heroin from Cambodia to help pay off the debts of his drug-addicted brother, but was caught as he passed through the security gates at Changi Airport. Those steps through the gates were his last as a free man; he is due to be executed on December 2.
Then came Schapelle Corby. The young Queenslander was found with 4.1kg of marijuana in her boogie board bag when she landed in Bali in October 2004; while she says the drugs weren't hers, two customs officials and two police officers say she admitted they were. Further adding to the intrigue is that the bags weren't locked, police never used gloves when holding the outer bag, while the inner bag was apparently not checked for fingerprints.
Corby is now in jail serving 15 years for the offence.
Then came the big one: the so-called "Bali Nine" in April this year. This case is on-going, but from this article it seems the Australian Federal Police knew what was going to happen, contacted the Indonesian authorities beforehand and gave them free reign to take action.
Five people were arrested at Denpasar Airport in Bali, with four found to have heroin strapped to their bodies; while another four were arrested at a nearby hotel. All nine are on trial or will face trial shortly; all nine face the death penalty, including the four "drug mules" who say they were forced into doing the run.
Just to finish things off, former underwear model Michelle Leslie was found outside a Bali party with two ecstasy tablets in her handbag. Leslie's case was newsworthy not just because she was the latest in a line of Australians caught with drugs overseas, but also because her good looks made for good photos. Leslie is now free after serving three months in a Bali prison; she had been found guilty but only had to serve that time because it was said she was addicted to drugs of some kind (news reports generally suggest this was a prescription for attention-deficit disorder).
Four cases, four lots of headlines; four of the same or four very different cases?
They're all very different cases.
Take Van for example. It's generally acknowledged that he did his drug run to help his brother, who had allegedly run up a huge drug bill. The drugs weren't meant for sale in Singapore; the bad luck for him was that he was caught there, where any more than 15 grams is grounds for a hanging.
Given that at the time of writing he had just over three days to live, it would appear a harsh price to pay for his brother's sins. This is the position taken by many protesters both here and in Singapore, especially since Van has cooperated with authorities fully and has shown remorse for his actions.
Yet as the Singapore Government rightly points out, heroin is a killer: that's why it's illegal. The Singaporeans also point out that as a sovereign country they have the right to make their own laws, which people living or visiting must abide by.
While it's easy to have sympathy for Van and suggest his death sentence should be reduced to life imprisonment or a long sentence, calls for a nation-wide minute's silence or for Prime Minister John Howard to miss the Prime Minister's XI cricket match agains the West Indies because of the hanging are wide of the mark.
We use such things to remember those who served our country, not for those who've been caught breaking the law.
Corby is a case unto herself. Many in Australia believe her story that the marijuana was put in her bag by an airport baggage handler, yet there is still the suspicion that she was perhaps a little naive and perhaps thought she could get away with it. Her story has never changed though.
The Bali Nine face an uncertain future. Indonesian prosecutors want the death penalty for all nine; it remains to be seen if the four drug mules - who all seemed to be scratching for a penny beforehand - are spared because of their circumstances. The fate of the other five seems to be about as promising as an American walking down an Iraqi street wearing the stars and stripes and a t-shirt saying "Fuck the world, I'm American".
The less said about Michelle Leslie the better: her case changed so often that it's hard to tell the difference between fact and fiction.
But all four cases beg the one question:
Why use drugs?

Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again...

2005-11-20T16:33:00.000+10:00

I GOT a smile from a stranger the other night.
Not just any stranger though: this one was an attractive young lady who smiled and started playing with her hair as I left the fish and chip shop up here in Port Douglas. It certainly made an otherwise mundane trip for food more exciting than normal, and helped ease the pain of having to pay $4.40 for a serve of chips and a potato scallop/cake.
I'd like to be able to report that I got chatting with said girl, kicked on with a few drinks later on, then went back to her room and swapped recipes for scones, but I can't. She was with a group of friends, and I was walking out of there in the first place, so a combination of nerves and a desire not to appear desperate scotched that idea.
Shame really. Was looking for some new scone recipes too.
All this just confirms that I'm part of a group of males I like to call The Pessimists. To be a Pessimist you have to know exactly when a girl isn't interested, but don't have the foggiest idea when they are.
For example, if a girl starts giving off positive body language - say playing with her hair, physical contact, watching you intently - a Pessimist will realise that, then begin thinking that perhaps she is interested, but maybe I'm reading it wrong, but on the other hand... Meanwhile, the window of opportunity is rapidly closing, eventually snapping shut with the girl walking off disappointed and the Pessimist suddenly realising he's seriously fucked up.
This is something I'm really good at. While overseas I had one memorable night where a girl kept putting her hand on my chest and saying they were hanging around, then her friend buggered off when we were on the dancefloor. I did nothing, friend came back, moment's over. My excuse was that every guy in the club was hitting onto her, so I didn't want to appear like a sleaze.
That's the other thing about Pessimists: they tend to be described as "good guys", a description they like to keep.
Of course, this is a complete opposite to the Optimist, who thinks every girl on the planet is attracted to him, and any that say they aren't are clearly suffering from a major hormonal imbalance.
Anyway, enough rambling. In the words of the Angels, I might wait at the bar; maybe she might show. Am I ever gonna see her face again?
Hopefully I won't get "no way get fucked fuck off" in reply.

From The Depths To The Peaks

2005-11-17T13:16:00.000+10:00

IT'S often said that to fully appreciate ectasy (the feeling as opposed to the drug), you first have to go through some form of agony.
Australian soccer fans will now all about this. Since the national team, known as the Socceroos, last qualified for the World Cup, they have put their fans and themselves through every range of emotion. Their plight has been well-documented, but it's worth repeating again: losing thanks to an own goal in a playoff against Argentina in 1993; leading 2-0 with about 10 minutes to go against Iran, only for them score twice and go through on away goals; and finally winning the first game against Uruguay in 2001 1-0, only to lose the return 3-0.
It's been a ride nto many would particularly care for.
So last night when Uruguay peppered the Australian goal early in the match, many had the feeling of "oh no, not again."
But it didn't happen again.
First Marco Bresciano ensured he'd become a household name by scoring twoards the end of the first half, giving Australia a 1-0 lead, and more importantly levelling the two-match series 1-1.
Try though they might, Australia could not break through for a second, decisive goal. This just upped the pressure, as any Uruguayan goal meant Australia would have to score twice more because of the away goals rule (away goals count for double if the aggregates are tied).
Time passed slowly. One English gent (the upgrade of the century, truth be told) reckoned that Australia would score in the 89th minute. That came and went, and we were into extra time, where again Australia just couldn't get the goal.
Full-time extra time. Time for a penalty shootout: surely the ultimate indignity, as it was about the only way we hadn't been knocked out at this point.
The crowd at the pub cheered madly when Harry Kewell scored the first for Australia, and even louder when Mark Schwarzer saved Uruguay's first attempt. The cheering continued when Tony Vidmar converted his shot, only for a hush to come over the room when Uruguay kicked their next goal.
Mark Viduka is one of the better strikers in the English Premier League, so when he strode up most were confident; a confidence misplaced when he produced a kick so soft and flaccid it needed Viagra to get up. Fortunately Schwarzer again came to the party with a brilliant save, so if John Aloisi kicked his, Australia were through.
Aloisi ran in...
And kicked it.
People around the country (actually, I'm only assuming this; the crowd at the pub certainly did) went nuts. After 32 years, with more heartache than a collection of country and western songs, Australia were through.
As you may have guessed, I enjoyed watching this. It certainly made for a better mood than earlier in the day, when someone you'd think would know better cut me off based on misinformation. I've not idea if he read my reply, but it's a sad world when someone accuses you of doing something when they know it's a lie; and even sadder when others believe it.
C'est la vie. I've no time for liars or hypocrites.
I'm too busy celebrating life and the soccer.

I Was Born A Rambling Man...

2005-11-13T11:53:00.000+10:00

THIS year my life seems to revolve around hostels; ironic really when you consider that at the start of the year I was staying in a town (Cooma) that no longer had hostels (or if they do I've no idea where).
During the course of my travels since May I've stayed in hostels or dirt-cheap hotels in London, Paris, Brugge, Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague (although that was a cheap add-on to an otherwise expensive hotel), Vienna, Budapest, Munich, Nice, Barcelona, Madrid, Lisbon, Bordeaux, Edinburgh, Inverness, Dublin, Galway, Kilkenny and Port Douglas.
There were also camping grounds (much like caravan parks here in Australia) in Venice, Rome and Florence, and apartments in Cinque Terre and Lagos.
Some of these were brilliant, although given they are cheap accommodation, you can generally find fault anywhere you stay. For example, Berlin's City Stay hostel was brilliant: except that the lights in the showers went off if you didn't keep moving around, and you had to hold the tap in to keep the water going. Those of us who enjoy standing under a hot shower often had to jump around waving our arms while trying to keep the stupid button pressed in, which is no mean feat when you're hungover.
The really, really good hostels will have some kind of entertainment with cheap drinks available. The Generator in London was good for this: 1 pound pints for three hours, by which time you'd got a taste and forgotten you were trying not to spend so much money. You could also win booze for doing silly things, including singing karaoke, pole-dancing, and on one memorable occasion, dancing in a g-string (think tall, strange man).
Rome was alright, although their efforts to make money from the bar were thwarted by a combination of high prices and the fact people were allowed to bring in their own opened beer bottles, which were available across the road at 1 euro a piece.
But by far the greatest "entertainment" in a dorm comes when a young couple begins coupling.
You'll be lying in bed, trying to mind your own business, when all of a sudden you hear what sounds like a cow chewing on gum.
Then the bed might start to shake or squeak, followed by the inevitable short, sharp breaths. If the couple is drunk, these may be loud enough to wake the whole dorm up and allow them to share the experience.
Of course, if you really need to sleep there are a few options. The one I used best was to turn on the iPod and listen to music, while others try the pillow-over-the-head trick.
If these don't work (ie the bed/floor is shaking), then all you can do is grin and bear it, and give the offending couple a knowing look first thing in the morning.
That or throw a cold cup of water over them mid-stroke.

What's your best travel story? Post them below; be warned they may be taken off if too rude/crude/prude. It can be about anything you like, although I'd prefer it if you didn't mention that one time, on band camp...

That's An Interesting Question...

2005-11-05T08:20:00.000+10:00

AS A journalist I get to ask some really insightful questions.
Unfortunately, most of the questions I ask veer between "how do you feel about the win/loss/court case against you for fradulent cheques written on the sides of cows" to "so, what now?"
On one memorable occasion I couldn't even think of a question at all. I had to speak to a local school principal about some new funding or whatever, and took so long trying to get the quesion out that he eventually just said to put down quotes along the lines of that they were very happy to get the money and it would go to a good purpose.
I'd like to be able to say that the published article contained quotes from that particular principal saying how the money would go towards his retirement fund, but I can't. When it came to controversial quotes, all I could think about was a judge telling me no to do that ever again and awarding 100% of my earnings for the next 30 years to the soul I defamed.
Of course the Fourth Estate doesn't have exclusive rights to stupid questions. I've applied for jobs where they ask some of the most inane questions.
One job I applied for asked about last book read and favourite movie. Again, much as I'd like to say that I wrote Dr Suess' Green Eggs And Ham as last book and A Very Brady Christmas as my favourite movie, but I wanted the job and put down The Blues Brothers and Steve Waugh's autobiography.
Mind you, I can see what they're getting at: after all who wants someone working for them when their favourite movie is Dude, Where's My Car?
Come to think of it, who hasn't asked a stupid question? Here's something to remember though next time you hear sniggers or smartarse comments after asking a question: at uni, we were taught that the only stupid question is the one you don't ask.
I still reserve the right to snigger or be a smartarse though.

Random thought of the week:
When putting in a contact lens, no matter how good you are at it, make sure there's something stopping said lens from dropping straight down the drain. Good thing I still have glasses.

Won't You Take Me To | Funkytown?

2005-10-27T20:48:00.000+10:00

I'VE recently decided to listen to every single track on my iPod.
Well, not every track: I've skipped some 12th Man stuff because that's better when you listen to the full thing, and in the interests of my sanity I've skipped any Britney Spears tracks that pop up.
It's a fairly long task, but then listening to and writing notes about 3394 different tracks generally is. There's a few that the Internet searching service got wrong, but other than that it's all pretty good. It'd be nice to get past songs that start with "b" (songs beginning with "al" to "an" took forever and a day).
But, I know what you're thinking. Why has he got Britney Spears on his iPod? Actually, if you think that's bad, I've also got John Denver's Annie's Song, a distinctly unmemorable track from manufactured (but very pretty) 90s band the Teen Queens (Be My Baby for those wanting to get a copy), and most heartbreakingly of all, Billy Ray Cyrus telling everyone about his Achy Breaky Heart.
Before you all excommunicate me, I would also like to present Men At Work's Down Under, a sampling of Coldplay, U2, Matchbox Twenty and Maroon 5, and any of the important stuff sung by one Jimmy Barnes.
So why keep so many songs? For one, I own a 40-gig iPod that isn't close to being full as yet, so any culling has been postponed for a while.
The second and most important reason is that I have a portable collection of songs that are very handy if someone wants to listen to a particular track. Generally these requests come form those saddled with two x chromosomes, although I have played requests from males. Why Jason Warren-Smith wanted to hear Peter Andre's Mysterious Girl will forever remain a mystery to me.
Again, I hear you ask, why do you have that on cd to start with? I buy a lot of compilation cd's, so there's generally a mix of classics and crapulence. Thus the same box set that gave me Jimmy Barnes and INXS telling everyone about the Good Times they are about to have also chucked in some horrendous 80s pop by Kids In The Kitchen. For every Sounds Of Then (I laugh and think that this is Australia), there's a Mysterious Girl.
Sometimes you come across gems though. At one stage I had the whole playlist on random, and came across the George Baker Selection's Little Green Bag, which will be familiar to those who've seen the Toyota ads here in Australia where a guy wearing a "Make My Dinner" t-shirt joins in a women's rights rally.
There could be more, but at any rate I reckon I've got most requests covered. Provided, of course, people would rather listen to the Traveling Wilbury's or the Cockroaches rather than Madonna or Bruce Springsteen. Or even Achy Breaky Heart. What were people thinking?!?

Imagine There's No Bullsh!t...

2005-10-11T18:45:00.000+10:00

THERE was a short while after I came back from overseas that I had to look in the jobs section of the local rags.
This always frightens me. Really frightens me. This is largely because employers will either ask for super-experienced workers for an apprentice position, or the ones that do look like they could use my work abilities are the ones that look like they could go under any day now.
To make life really interesting, go too far in some newspapers and you end up looking up the personals section.
This section doesn't so much scare me as make me laugh. All these people write in saying how beautiful and wonderful they are, tempting you like a doughnut does to Homer Simpson. (Mmmmmm... doughnut....)
Yet you always get the feeling that answering these is only going to leave you disappointed. Sure, you might find the six-foot stunner is in fact six feet, but that's more likely to be six feet wide rather than six feet tall.
Likewise the girl who replies to the man who owns his own business and house could be a shade unhappy when it turns out the business is a dodgy fish and chip shop and the house is an illegally parked caravan.
But what if employment and personal ads were combined?
Imagine the ads then. You'd be able to tell the difference between male and female advertisers, simply because female advertisers would ask for "lots of experience necessary", while male advertisers would have "less experience the better. In fact, those with no experience will have the inside running."
Of course you would need more truth in advertising. Those "kilo-rich" people would need to make sure potential partners had all the right licenses (heavy vehicle, forkift etc), while those of us with large families will need someone with experience in catering for hundreds and thousands.
For the record, here's my ad to kick these new, "combined" ads off:

Girlfriend wanted

Do you like Pina Coladas? Or getting caught in the rain?

Are you not into health foods? But rather champagne?

If so then SAJ INC has the position for you.

We are currently looking for the right girl to fit a new role

in our ever-expanding business.

Applicants will need good catering skills,

a sense of humour, and the ability to watch cricket all summer

(or at least keep quiet while it's on).

Applicants should be between 18 and 27 years old,

be under 5 feet 10 inches tall,

and not spend all their money every time there's a sale on.

The successful applicant will be placed on probation for three months,

during which they may be released at any time.

There will be plenty of opportunities to travel,

So don't delay in getting your application off today!

(Applications must include photos)

To apply, simply e-mail sajjittarius@yahoo.com.au

or click on one of the icons below.

SAJ INC is not an equal opportunity employer.

And Now For Something Completely Different...

2005-10-08T22:57:00.000+10:00

AUSTRALIA is a large country.
It's the sixth-largest country in the world and the only country that's both a country and a continent: yet it's also one of the least-densely populated places going around, with just 20,090,437 people spread across 7,617,930 sq km of land (both figures from http://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/geos/as.html). That's just under 3 people per square kilometre.
This is slightly misleading though. People in Australia mostly live in the various capitals around the place.
The character of these capitals varies from place to place. As expected, sub-tropical Brisbane is a trifle more laid-back than the southern capitals, while Perth's isolation means very few from the east coast (which is pretty much everyone) know anything about it other than Alan Bond.
But for those who aren't from Australia or don't do much in the way of travelling, here's some details of six of Australia's eight state and territory capitals. I haven't included Hobart (Tasmania) and Darwin (Northern Territory) for the very good reason that I've never been there.

Canberra (Australian Capital Territory)
Ask 99 per cent of those unlucky enough not to come from Australia what our capital is and 99 per cent of them will get it wrong. That's ok though: Canberra's a hole.
Oh, I suppose there are various things about it that are worthwhile. Floriade, held during spring, is a rather spectacular time to pay a visit, while it still astounds many as to how a whole city of around 350,000 people can be so well hidden (yet so full of bloody roundabouts and traffic lights that don't let you through more than one at a time).
Frankly though, Canberra's big problem is that it's full of public servants. Sure, like any stereotype there are exceptions to that rule (those who receive my e-mails for one), but I'm sure even they would admit that their city is full of boring bastards whose idea of a good time is to buy a new sweater.
It's cold, the city doesn't really support its local sporting teams, and it sometimes can seem empty. A few pubs within walking distance of houses wouldn't go astray either.

Sydney (New South Wales)
Welcome to Sydney dahling *air-kiss, air-kiss* (can't believe what that bitch is wearing), no, Mike and I split up, it wasn't working out (bastard didn't earn enough), no I haven't met your partner, pleasure to meet you (how'd she get him? Wonder how serious it is), this old thing? Found it sitting in the back of the wardrobe (cost a fucking fortune at Gucci's) etc etc.
Sydney is the largest city in Australia, the host city for the "Best Olympics Ever" (by Juan Antonio Samaranch and the Fat Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons), and to be perfectly honest, a bit of a showpony really.
It's the place to be if you're an aspiring actor, musician or drug abuser (or all three). Everybody's who's anybody lives there, although you'll generally only see the nobodies rather than the anybodies at any particular function or red carpet special.
Mind you, it does have a lot to be proud of: the Sydney Opera House would make a great addition to any self-respecting city, while the harbour view when you're coming by plane is superb. Just a pity the place is full of Sydneysiders.

Melbourne (Victoria)
Where Sydney likes to think it's the fashion capital of Australia, Melbourne just is. In fact, it's probably fair to say that to thrive in Melbourne you really only need two things: an ability to dress well, and an unabiding love for Australian rules football. You can theoretically thrive with a love of cricket, but you really do need to follow a footy team in Melbourne to be socially acceptable.
Melbourne weather is a bit strange though. I'm not sure if it's true, but there have been plenty of people that say Crowded House's classic Four Seasons In One Day was based on a day in Melbourne. It's true: any trip down south should contain clothes to cover all eventualities.
Melbourne is also the only city in the country that still has a substantial tram system. This brings its own problem though, not least trying to turn right at some city intersections (you get to wait on the far left because the trams take the far right), while it's generally not a good idea to hoon down the left-hand side of a tram since people tend to get out that side.

Adelaide (South Australia)
There are some that feel John Saffron was a little bit harsh, when in his Not The Sunscreen Song, he wrote "never live in Adelaide. It's a hole." Those people are generally people that live in Adelaide.
It's hard to say much about Adelaide, simply because it doesn't really come up all that often. Sure, they have a couple of handy AFL (Australian Football League) teams, and a nice beach or three, but what else really happens there?
Adelaide's status as a fairly uninteresting place can be summed up by the fact that Sir Donald Bradman chose to spend most of his adult life there. Despite the fact he's the greatest batsman ever (by a long way too), he really could be a bit of a boring bastard, and Adelaide suited him fine.
Sounds like Party Central eh?

Perth (Western Australia)
Perth suffers because it's a long way from anything. It's the most isolated big city (1 million-plus people) in the world, and is actually closer to the Indonesian capital Jarkata than it is to Canberra.
Theoretically Perth (and Western Australia) is part of Australia: practically it's not. The people of Western Australia actually voted to secede from Australia in 1933 (66 per cent in favour), although that was scuttled when the British Parliament said the Australia Parliament had to give it the ok. They didn't.
Perth has given the world some useful things: Dennis Lillee, INXS, Simon Black; but they also gave us Bondy, who ripped shitloads of people off. he did help us win the America's Cup in 1983 though.
I suppose Perth would be more interesting if it weren't so bloody far away.

Brisbane (Queensland)
Those from Brisbane claim it's one of the world's most livable cities: and they're right. They also claim it's the most livable city, and any fancy-dan survey that suggests otherwise just didn't look at its facts properly.
As mentioned, Brisbane is the capital of Queensland, the place in Australia where you can find youself a loopy in local, state and national governments. It's also unique among the big Australian cities: it holds less than half its state's population, although there's a fair few more that live in nearby.
Up until the 80's Brisbane was described as a "big country town", and there are many from Sydney or Melbourne that'll still agree with that. It's a fairly laid-back kind of place, with warm winters and stinking hot summers. This is why no one really gets dressed up that often: it's too bloody hot.
Brisbane now is like a teenager making the big decision: whether to stay child-like and keep that big country town feeling that attracts so many people, or whether to boldly leap forward into worldly sophistication and pretend it's one of the grown-ups now.
It's also where my family calls home, and I guess where I'll call home.
One day.

I'm completely underwhelmed...

2005-10-05T11:30:00.000+10:00

NEWS headlines around the world: Supermodel Kate Moss was allegedly caught sniffing cocaine.
Wow. Couldn't see that coming.
While Blind Freddie could see that one coming, especially given the number of rumours floating around over the years regarding Ms Moss and illegal substances, apparently this was newsworthy because it's so rare to get photographic evidence of celebrities using the stuff.
Personally I couldn't give a rats. Despite being one of the most popular - and certainly bigger earning - of the supermodels, to paraphrase Robert G. Barrett, she looks like a good root and a green apple would kill her.
But then again the fashion industry is something that I do not profess to ever understanding.
In the Leisure Suit Larry computer game series, Larry gets around in a tacky white leisure suit (hence the name). For most of the games he's considered a throwback to a time best forgotten, until in the final game leisure suits become popular again and he's suddenly the hippest thing in town.
My approach to my wardrobe is something similar to that. One day football jerseys and dodgy t-shirts will be back in fashion: until then I'm happy to walk along the fashion highway at my own pace.
Really, while I can see that those mini-mohawks don't look too bad on some people, anyone caught with a mullet is either a yobbo or dedicated fashion victim. When the two combine, like one bloke tried to do in Europe, it makes them not only look like a fashion victim, but a reptilian one at that.
And caking on the makeup? Eewwww. I know a girl that's quite attractive, but cakes on the makeup so thick you'd need a chisel or a blast from a firehose just to get it off each night. Then there's girls who deliberately try to look like trailer trash, guys with way too much bling for their own good, anything that resemble 80's fashion etc etc.
Nah, give me normal clothes. In fact, if I ever opened a clothes store, the catch-cry would be "normal clothes for normal people".
Life's too short for trying desperately to keep up with the beautiful people. And as Kate Moss has shown in recent times, it's not necessarily a good thing either.

Don't Go Breakin' My Heart...

2005-09-28T14:08:00.000+10:00

I'M going to put it all on the line here. Lay my heart out for those that aren't aware, perhaps didn't pick up on various mentions around the place.
It's tough. I've been hurt before. So many times I've thought "this is it", only to be thwarted at the very end by men whose sole purpose in life is to go around hurting men like me. So many chances, so little success... and yet there have been times when life just couldn't seem to get any better: those moments where time stands still, where everyone is slapping your back in congratulations, where it just doesn't get any better.
So here goes:

I SUPPORT THE NORTH QUEENSLAND COWBOYS, AND I REALLY HOPE THEY WIN THE NRL GRAND FINAL!

Yes, the former laughing stock of rugby league are a mere 80 minutes of very good football away from erasing the pain of the past year. Pain so bad, that I'm not sure what I'll do if the Cowboys get done (especially if it's with 30 seconds to go. That's about the time that I pull out the .22 and shoot the tv).
Let's go over this year of pain for a fairly typical Queenslander:

1. Queensland Bulls host both domestic cricket finals. And lose them.
This was even worse than last season, when in the Pura Cup final they had to content with a Victorian team playing at home and still grieving the loss of coach David Hookes earlier that year.
This year the Bulls played Tasmania in the ING Cup final at the Gabba. The Bulls were expected to win, but despite a Jimmy Maher century Tassie's batsmen were too good on the day.
In the Pura Cup final Queensland played arch-rivals NSW. Twice they looked like getting flogged: firstly when NSW bowled them out for 102 in their first innings, and secondly when NSW reached 4/158 chasing 183. The Bulls clawed back, only for Wade Seccombe to drop a chance off Nathan Bracken with NSW just short of their target. The Blues won.

2. Queensland hosts two Origin matches. And loses the second one to lose the series.
This hurt. At 19-0 up in the first match everything was going to plan, only for bloody NSW to lead 20-19 with fuck-all to go. Jonathan Thurston kicked a field goal to take it into golden point, and Matt Bowen took an intercept to give Queensland the lead.
NSW won a fairly tight second match in Sydney, then came out in the third and flogged us. Really brought out the whip. They whipped us so bad it wasn't just the jerseys that were maroon: our backs (and backsides) were a similar colour from excessive flogging. To make it worse, the match was at Lang Park. Ouch.

3. Australia wins the First Ashes Test. And loses the series.
Fair dinkum, this had to be the banker didn't it? Australia hadn't lost an Ashes series since 1986/87, and had just come off a rather successful domestic season and tour of New Zealand.
After eventually winning the First Test at Lord's comfortably, it all went downhill. Glenn McGrath trod on a ball and was ruled out just before the start of the Second Test, Ricky Ponting sent England into bat on a road, Jason Gillespie bowled tripe, Brett Lee was good in patches but still doesn't use his head when bowling all that often, and none of the batsmen really got going.
All through this Shane Warne was like the single sane man in the asylum, trying his damndest to stave off the inevitable. Now we have to listen to gloating Poms for the next few years (remember, they lost 1-0 to Northern Ireland and 3-1 to us. It tends to shut them up).

So folks, you can see why I'm a little bit hesitant about putting too much hope in NQ this Sunday. I hope against hope that my heart won't be broken again; alas, all I can see is another round of phonecalls from gloating friends.

It Ain't Over 'Till It's Over...

2005-09-23T21:34:00.000+10:00

AND yes, after nearly five years in what can best be described as cold conditions, my Southern Sojourn to Canberra and Cooma is now at an end.
It doesn't seem all that long ago that we loaded the old Pug, tidied up the insane mess of papers and the like that masqueraded as my bedroom of the time, and left the bright lights of Bris Vegas for the cold of the nation's capital.
I headed south in 2001 to study Sports Media at the University of Canberra (the only place in the country that it's offered) with the full intention of getting work back in Brisbane in 2004. Fate stepped in, and in late August 2003 I began working at the Cooma-Monaro Express (the Distress to its friends), where I remained until heading overseas in May this year.
Once overseas it was obvious I wouldn't be going back to Cooma, although this knowledge didn't make it any easier to say goodbye to friends in Cooma. I didn't get the chance to get to friends in Canberra: rest assured though I will visit before I go back o/s.
Life down south was tough: I lived in four different places in two and a half years in Canberra; while Cooma brought its own challenges to someone reared in the big smoke. All these things though brought about a much more rounded me, and one slightly more tolerable (but just as messy).
At any rate, here are some of the highlights of Stuart's Southern Sojourn.

Canberra = Brisbane Lions premierships
For those trying to figure out how that worked, it's fairly simple: the three years I was down in Canberra (2001-2003), the Brisbane Lions won AFL premierships.
The first was perhaps the most memorable. Cagey and I had driven down to Melbourne for reasons lost in the mist of time, and watched the game on the big screen at the Crown Casino. I got talking to two Carlton fans who were both going for Brisbane (on account of us playing Essendon), and sledged the little old Essendon fan sitting in front of me. That night we went out to a pub near Lygon Street (Pug's, I believe it's called), possibly watched Australian Idol finalist Millsy sing (this was before Idol), and ended up yelling very loudly at a security guard that we'd finally won. He smiled and let me stay, which was rather nice.
I spent the second flag sitting on the floor with my then flatmate, cursing some dodgy umpiring decisions that seemed to keep Collingwood in the match. The good guys prevailed eventually, then came out and slaughtered Collingwood in the 2003 decider after being written off beforehand. I got written off during this match though, and ended up stealing a wheelie-bin to break into the place I was staying after the other bloke hooked up with some chick.

Personal sporting premierships
Until moving to Canberra my out of school sporting activities were limited to one season of indoor cricket as a child. This multiplied somewhat down south: four seasons of cricket, two of Aussie rules football, four in total of mixed netball, three in total of indoor cricket, three of oztag and three of indoor soccer (mixed and male).
The first premiership (and indeed my first) was in the first season of indoor cricket in Canberra. We had a shit-hot side, with an old pro in Richard, a man with Gadget arms in Bort, a handy all-rounder and good leader in Honks, and just a bloody good all-round cricketer in Blaise. I bowled right-arm leg-spin around the wicket, generally getting people stumped when they came forward and missed the ball.
We lost our trial games convincingly, then came out and only lost one game all season before taking the premiership. It was a great team with everyone enjoying themselves immensly.
Down in Cooma we won a B-grade mixed netball comp, as well as three consecutive mixed indoor soccer finals. Jason and I were the only two to play in all three grand finals, and both of us contributed. We won the first easily, but came close to oblivion in the semi-final in the second season when the opposition's striker unleashed a thunderbolt. If it went in we were two down with a few minutes to go: instead the ball hit my arm and we ended up winning. It was a similar story in the third final, with me in goals and Jason up front setting up the win.

On the grog
We did some strange things on the grog. Those there will remember a karaoke night at the West Belconnen Leagues Club where we all got smashed. To make matters interesting there was precisely one attractive girl: at one stage Ivan was trying to chat her up when Cagey literally pushed him out of the way before beginning his own chatting.
There were some interesting nights with the ladies as well. Cagey missed out in Melbourne when we rebuffed the advances of the girl rubbing her arse against his groin, while I did a pretty good impersonation of a rabbit in the headlights one night in Canberra when I spotted a ring on the wedding finger of the girl hitting onto me. Turned out she was on the rags anyway.
Perhaps the best story from a night out though was one night at King O'Malley's in Canberra. I was out with Blaiser and the Cagey, with the latter two mentioning the same girl over and over again. After Cagey left (coincidence? maybe...) two of the girl's friends came over to chat to us other two, before one of them tag-teamed with the original soon after.
End result? Blaise and Kirsti are now happily married after a beautiful wedding in Brisbane. Not that Cagey and I were totally appreciative after Cagey won at the casino the night before. Mum had to drag us home about 3am the day of the wedding after we'd told her we'd be out for a while longer.

There's more to it than that, but I can't possibly include everything. If there's something stupid we did, why not post a comment and let the world know; otherwise, have fun, and see y'all next post.

Oh the pain, oh the igonomy...

2005-09-13T18:53:00.000+10:00

ALRIGHT, let's get this over with quickly.
England have won the Ashes series for the first time in donkey's years, defeating Australia 2-1 after a draw in the Fifth Test at The Oval in London. Kevin Pietersen anchored England's second innings with his maiden Test century, scoring 158 to keep Australia's bowlers at bay.
Ok, that much you should all know already.
Seriously though, what can we take out of this series? More to the point, what can we take out of it that hasn't already been done to death in the papers?

This is truly the age of marketing men
After England held their nerve (just) in the Second Test to win by 2 runs, the England and Wales Cricket Board (ECB) immediately put out a DVD called "The Greatest Test".
The Greatest Test?!?
Sure, this was a good, nay, great Test match. Australia were gone for all money at stumps on day 3, 8/175 chasing 282 with just Shane Warne, Brett Lee and Michael Kasprowicz standing between England and a series-levelling victory. It's history now that this unlikely threesome got Australia within 3 runs of victory, only to be denied by a stunning Geraint Jones catch off Kasprowicz.
But The Greatest Test? Surely either of the two Tied Tests would have to come into consideration. The Second Tied Test - India vs Australia at Madras in September 1986 - finished with Greg Matthews taking the last Indian wicket with the second-last ball of the match. Matthews took 10 wickets for the match while bowling in a sweater: lunacy when you consider that Dean Jones scored 210 before being taken to hospital and put on a saline drip.
And what about the First Tied Test between Australia and the West Indies at Brisbane in 1960/61? Australia weren't just gone: they were dead in the water at 6/92 chasing233. Yet somehow Richie Benaud and Alan Davidson dragged them to within striking range, only to be foiled courtesy of a Joe Solomon direct hit from side-on.
Therein lies the difference. Benaud and Davidson had to battle the clock to bring their team close; Warne, Lee and Kasprowicz had two days to make their runs. A brave fightback yes, but The Greatest Test? I think not.

There has to be a middle ground
When Andrew Flintoff began hitting out later in the series, Australia seemed to have one plan: spread the field. Come to think of it, they tended to do that as soon as he got in.
Compare this to what happened every time Adam Gilchrist came in. England captain Michael Vaughan kept an attacking field, meaning that if Gilchrist stuffed up early on - as most batsmen do - there were fielders waiting for the edges. Even when Gilchrist hit a few fours, Vaughan kept an attacking field. End result? Geraint Jones scored more runs than the Australian number 7.

Swingers are back
Not the Austin Powers style - although he'd have been stoked with the result - but the Simon Jones and Matthew Hoggard style. Throughout this series the English bowlers (and to the same extent Shane Warne) have shown that a moving ball will cause all kinds of problems for batsmen, no matter how good they are.
The last true Australian swinger was Damien Fleming, and despite being injured a hell of a lot and bowling in allegedly hostile swing conditions, he still took 75 wickets in 20 Tests at an average of just under 26. England's success shows that a good swing bowler adds a lot to your attack: especially if the conditions are right.

They're my thoughts anyway. Again, well played England: let's hope other Test series can match this one for sustained intensity.

Sing us a song: Actually please stop!

2005-09-03T14:11:00.000+10:00

I WISH I could sing.
Actually, if you listen to my mother, she'd say she wished I could still sing.
I was in a Tournament of the Minds competition once, where the team's most memorable moment was me singing my own lyrics to the Star Trek spoof song Star Trekkin'. After that, Mum decided that her little darling needed to get singing lessons so as to make the most of his precocious talent.
Unfortunately for Mum all little darling wanted to do was play sport (in particular cricket), and that soon died a slow and painful death. Since then breakouts of Spontaneous Karaoke Syndrome have met with the following conversation:

Mum:
"Why can't you still sing? You used to be able to sing really well."
Son:
"Let's see Mum. I know: when a child reaches a certain age, they go through this thing called puberty. This ushers in a range of changes to the child's body, which include in the case of males, extra body hair, facial hair, growth spurts and a deeper voice. Do you think having a changed voice might've finished any hopes of a national number 1 hit?"

Of course, this is the same mother who, when I was 19 and with reasonable sideburns, exclaimed at the top of her voice: "you've got stubble!"
Wow. Fancy that: nearly 20 and some signs of facial hair.
This isn't about Mum though (there isn't nearly enough room, and besides, she still has embarassing photos of me). This is about singing, and my current lack of ability to do that task with any kind of acknowledgement of how the original was sung.
Before I go much further, I must add I won a karaoke competition at a campsite in Rome by singing Frank Sinatra's New York, New York. I must also add that none of the other singers could carry a note more than two steps without dropping it. But other attempts at karaoke have ended with people either laughing at the dance moves, high-pitched voices or ability to forget about a verse rather than the sheer brilliance of the vocals.
At any rate, there's a "Jim Beam Idol" on up in Port Douglas for the next month. My plan is to head in on Sunday night, check out the competition, and see if it's worth embarassing myself yet again.
Should be fun.

I don't want to have to say I want you...

2005-08-19T03:43:00.000+10:00

DEFINITION of surreal: having travelled around Europe for the last three months, seeing sights that are famous the world over and others that you don’t see in the younger countries, I’m now back in Brisbane.
Don’t get me wrong: I love Brisbane. My family lives there (with the exception of a brother in Sydney for work), and every time I come back I know there’s a bed, great friends and a cold beer or 36 waiting for me.
What is strange though is coming back to things that are so familiar. Just about everywhere you go in Europe is something different: travel for a few hundred kilometres in any direction on the continent and chances are you’ll end up in a different country with a different culture. Travel the same distance in parts of Australia and you’ll be lucky to find anything.
One thing that did strike me about Australia and Europe is that our wonders are mostly natural. Where in Europe things like the Eiffel Tower, Stonehenge and any of Antonio Gaudi’s works in Barcelona are justifiably famous, with the exception of the Alps I couldn’t think of one natural wonder that would make me come back. Compare that to the variety of natural wonders scattered around Australia: the Great Barrier Reef, Uluru, the Tasmanian wilderness and the Daintree rainforest, with the Sydney Opera House the only truly famous Australian building.
Back to coming back home, and mentally your head is in about thirty different places, not least because of that bloody jetlag. There’s always a sense of what if after a trip like this: what if I’d got my working holiday visa straight off, what if I’d stayed longer in London, what if I could pick up signals from girls in pubs and clubs. They have a tendency to haunt you, not least the first-mentioned. You have such a blast over in Europe, meeting more people than you can poke the proverbial stick at, and at the end of it you go back home with only e-mails and phone calls to keep you in touch. If you stayed Europe to work, you never know what could happen…
But these are all what ifs, a past that cannot be changed, decisions that cannot be undone, paths that generally close off once you pick a different one. My path is one that will take me up to Port Douglas shortly, and from there? Who knows.
Should be fun though.

In my head this week: Split Enz Message To My Girl.
One of the many songs about a boy who's scared of telling a girl that he really is rather fond of her. The version sung by Neil Finn on the ENZSO (Split Enz Symphony Orchestra) album is absolutely brilliant - so brilliant it's copped a flogging on the iPod in the last week or so.

The death of Sir Joh

2005-04-24T21:07:00.000+10:00

SIR Johannes Bjelke-Petersen is dead.
For those not from Queensland, this has about as much relevance as the deaths of any number of people in the southeast Queensland town of Kingaroy.
For those from Queensland - and I would suspect those who aren't but are of a certain age - Sir Joh was a man who didn't just leave footprints on the beach of history, but instead altered it forever by performing a series of burnouts in a hotted-up, Queensland-made car.
As any Queenslander who has travelled will know, the Queensland stereotype under Joh was hardly flattering. In the "Our Queensland" series published by the Courier-Mail, Mike O'Connor gave his view of what people thought about Queensland.
"We were the hick state, hicks from Hicksville who lived in the hick Deep North."
Hardly a good look, eh? But it got worse:
"I went back to work on a newspaper and suffered through the excesses of the Joh years. Not content with making my home state the butt of the nation's jokes, it seemed that he was intent on making it the laughing stock of the universe. They were dark times and I clearly remember travelling south on business and being ashamed, when introduced to a group of strangers, of admitting that I came from Queensland."
"The southern journos wouldn't even drink with us, such was the odium of living in Queensland. It was guilt by association. Somehow, it was felt that as journalists we should have done more and that because we had not we sanctioned, by default, what was happening in the streets. "
"Maybe they were right. Maybe we should have done more. They were, by any reckoning, dark days."
I can't actually vouch for that. I was close on seven when Joh left office, and had only been in Queensland for about four of those.
He hasn't been in power for 18 years, but still his legacy is being debated.
Some say he was good for the state, some that he was bad.
This muddled thinking is reflected in a list of the top 10 best and worst decisions in Queensland's history.
Six of the best decisions came about because of support from Joh's government, if not the man himself, while six of the worst decisions were begun or perpetuated by Joh.
There's no doubt that Queensland has moved a long way from where it was. One thing that boggles the mind was that between the 1930s and the early 1950s no new secondary school were built in Queensland - apparently because the then Labor government thought educated people wouldn't vote for them, and anyway they didn't want Protestants getting an education.
As would be expected with an official government policy like that, sectarianism was a major problem, while a lack of enthusiasm for international migrants means Queensland is one of the least ethnically diverse states.
Add to this a lack of an upper house in the Queensland parliament since 1922, and you've got quite a shambles.
One of Joh's better decision was to abolish death taxes (taxes on inheritances) in 1972. All of a sudden old people from other states flocked to Queensland.
Joh also supported foreign investment in Queensland, as well as the development of places like the Gold Coast. Just like the building of the Snowy Scheme would be almost impossible today, there's very little to suggest any other government at any other time could have helped the Gold Coast to where it is now.
Other infrastructure projects included the South-East Freeway and the Gateway Bridge, the building of the Wivenhoe and Burdekin Dams and Brisbane hosting the 1982 Commonwealth Games and 1988 Expo.
Then there's the bad parts - not least the massive corruption in the police force.
Former police commissioner Terry Lewis was charged, imprisoned, de-knighted and even had his portrait taken down from police headquarters.
The only reason the Fitzgerald Inquiry, which exposed this corruption, came about was because Joh was busy gallivanting around the country trying to be elected as Prime Minister. Acting premier William Gunn decided he'd had enough after the ABC's Four Corners aired a segment called The Moonlight State. Gunn wanted the allegations investigated - which they were.
There was also the demolishing of some of Brisbane's historic buildings, including the Belle Vue Hotel, the handing out of knighthoods willy-nilly, the use of police in a way more associated with dictatorships, and at one stage, the banning of street protests altogether.
It's no wonder the older population has trouble deciding on the good and the bad of Joh's reign - but what hope is there for my generation?
Perhaps Queensland's history until the 1990s should be part of the school curriculum - not only can we learn about one of the more turbulent periods of Australian history, but also learn from the mistakes and successes. It explains a lot.

Holy toledo Batman...

2005-04-11T16:00:00.000+10:00

WELL folks, hasn't time been flying past quicker than a Ben Johnson circa 1988, what with the Pope passing on and Prince Chuck marrying Camilla Parkya-Balls all in two days.
It's been very busy down here too, dodging knives, drinking, playing sport, drinking, trying to sleep, drinking, and counting down the days until it's time to head of to Europe for three months of drinking.
The world is increasingly becoming a bizarre place - at least it would if it wasn't so bizarre to start off with. In good news, I see that Toowoomba Grammar School (from where I graduated as opposed to grew up) has won the First XI GPS competition. Apparently they won the 2000 comp as well, but given there doesn't seem to be a central register of these things anywhere on the net, it's hard to check this up.
If this is true, then there are some lucky students who have been at the school for two GPS premierships. When I was there (96-97 for those playing at home) we came close to the cricket in '96 and the soccer in both years.
Both times they finished top three (may have even been top two - I can't remember every little thing). The cricket team in '96 was captained by a nice young fellow called Lachlan Stevens, whom I impersonated during a talent night at one stage.
Strangely enough, I next met Lachlan at Manuka Oval while he was playing for the South Australian second XI. I was down studying sports media, and he'd moved to Adelaide in a sports admin role. When the SA 2nd XI came to Canberra to play the Comets, I had a team of four or five commentating the game for a community radio station. Needless to say the station closed soon afterwards.
But that's how small the world really is.
Another example: day off work on Thursday. Had a few bob burning a hole in the pocket, decided to go to the second-hand bookstore to see if thy had any Bill Bryson in stock (they did). As I was browsing, a bloke I used to work with in Brisbane recognised me and said g'day.
Apart from the immediately obvious question about what the guy was doing in a bookshop in Cooma (I'd've picked him being in Cooma Jail or on the way to the snow, but anyway), who would've thought that we'd meet up again in a country town 1400km away from where we knew each other? Bizarre.
At any rate, it's now just five weeks until I shoot off to the Northern Hemisphere. During that time I'll still be updating this site (maybe even more regularly!), but will be sending message from a different e-mail address.
In the meantime, be good to one another/that's the way it is/say hi to your Mum for me, and try not to get too disheartened about the footy tipping.

Getcha 'ead round this...

2005-03-15T11:50:00.000+10:00

GEE gosh, golly and durn it, it's been a wee while since my last bout of verbal diarrhoea, hasn't it?
This is in part because of the nice little white thing connected to my head through some nice little white headphones. I bought myself an iPod the other week and it's proved quite an addictive little piece of equipment, not least because it takes a rather long time to drop somewhere in the vicinity of 200 cd's onto it.
At the moment's there's something like 1357 songs on there, of which more than a few are doubles (live and studio versions), and some are "Good Morning Vietnam" excerpts ("It's 0-600 hours, what's the 0 stand for? Oh my God it's early").
Add this rather worthwhile distraction to the changes we've just made at the paper, which now require me to work at work, and it's all been busier than a one-warmed man with crabs down here in sunny Cooma.
Not nearly as busy as down in Taswega though, what with Crown Princess Mary of Denmark and her husband (some Danish fellow) visiting her home state for the first time since their fairytale wedding etc etc.
I'm rather fatigued about the whole damn thing though - Miranda Devine of the Sydney Morning Herald put it best when she said that many men felt she was "just a pretty Tassie chick who struck it lucky at the pub".
And that's pretty much what she is.
Yes, I know she's amazingly pretty and her husband's a bit of a spunk (between them they've pretty much got the looks down pat), and I know she's learnt the horribly difficult Danish language, but really.
I've had to learn the horribly difficult beaureaucratic language that council staff like to use when they're talking to you, as well as putting up with the delays they have in getting reports to you, but last I checked No Idea and Women's Folly weren't trying to stalk my every move with photographers desperate to catch me with an attractive member of the opposite sex hanging off my arm.
What has been more of interest to me was the revelation of former Australian Test cricketer Michael Slater's bipolar II diagnosis.
Being an unabashed Matthew Hayden fan (being from Queensland and all), I'll admit I always thought Slater was taking Hayden's place in the team.
Having now grown up (to five feet) and having the chance to look at footage of Slater, it's hard not to like the guy.
He lived life, and played cricket, at full blast. Both times he was dropped it seemed to be for a reason unrelated to his on-field efforts, and as we know now, there was quite a bit happening off the field.
Perhaps the lesson we can take from that is bottling up inner demons isn't the manly or Australian way to do things - it's a surefire way to oblivion.
Just because someone's talented doesn't mean they haven't got problems elsewhere. Nobody's perfect.

Oh no, not them again...

2005-02-28T15:49:00.000+10:00

WELL folks, another year, another "night of nights", where the stars all decide to rock up somewhere in absolutely horrendous outfights that no one really has the guts to say are terrible.
It’s a night where celebrities get to get up on stage, make some banal comments thanking everyone they’ve ever come in contact with, and go off and get intoxicated on their drug of choice.
It’s a night that feeds the gossip mags for the next six months, where they can sit there and analyse stars who are overweight, underweight, drugged out or breaking up with their partners after being spotted with Angelina Jolie at an after party.
I’m talking about the Oscars of course, although it could just as well be the Brownlow Medal, the Logies, the Allan Border Medal etc etc.
Apart from the obvious attractions of people far more wise (apparently?) than me deciding which movies should get awards, there’s very little interest.
Ok, that’s a lie - I like checking out what the young females are wearing as much as the next chick, although it is for slightly different reasons.
But the rest of it? Utterly, utterly boring.
Speaking of celebrities, there’s a few hum dingers coming down to Australia.
Prince Frederick and Princess Mary are already back in Mary’s home country, leading to more people gushing about how lucky we are to have our very own royal, and isn’t it just wonderful?
Sweden’s Princess Victoria - who despite being from the land of the blondes isn’t really someone you’d jump over rivers for - and our own Prince Charles, future head of this great land, will be coming as well.
Given that none of them will be coming down to Cooma for a feed at the local, I’m not really all that interested.
Yet, time and again, because these people are famous we’re supposed to sit there and gush all over them.
Here’s a tip that should get the punters interested: why not get Roy and HG to commentate from the Oscars?
It’d be great - Aussie wit meets Hollywood looks and egos.
Now THAT would be interesting.

I'd rather visit the city...

2005-01-27T15:09:00.000+10:00

TWO things brought the name Paris Hilton to my attention recently. Well, three actually, but the third wasn’t anything new.
The first was the appearance of a rather interesting caricature of Ms Hilton on that bastion of family values, South Park.
For those who weren’t lucky(?) enough to be watching, or were doing the patriotic thing and watching Lleyton Hewitt get through in five against some Spanish dude, it really was a far better piss-take of Hilton than most of us would even dare to think about.
In it, Hilton went to South Park to open her latest "Stupid Spoiled Whore" franchise, where young girls can by the clothes and makeup to make them look like whores as well. Not only this, discerning shoppers could also buy their own amateur sex-video playsets.
Which brings us to the number two Hilton moment - apparently she went to a newsstand in the good ol’ US of A, bought some magazines, got her change, noticed a copy of her very own home movie for sale, threw the change back at the guy behind the counter, took the tape and said she wasn’t paying.
Wow.
The final Hilton reminder was in a book by an English cricket commentator.
Eh?
BBC commentator Henry Blofeld put out a book called "Henry Blofeld’s Cricket Year". Rather imaginatively titled, and a bargain down the local second-hand book shop here in Cooma.
In it, Blofeld described one of the Hilton hotels (in Trinidad I think) as being overpriced and overrated.
Funnily enough, I happen to have the same feelings about young Paris and her sister Nicky.
Ok, probably not overpriced, but they really are overrated.
Paris’ sole attempt at working seems to have been to go on a show with Lionel Ritchie’s daughter Nicole on "A Simple Life", where the two of them attempt to live in the real world.
Actually, no, there’s a book about how to behave like an heiress. I had a peek in a bookstore once and given the lack of women without a) clothes or b) four tonnes of makeup, put it back down and ran to the sports section.
Yet tell most young men (including those closely related to myself) that you really don’t rate Paris Hilton, the standard response is "you must like the other one then".
Nope.
That’s not to say that if one of them took their clothes off laid down on the bed in front of you and said "take me, I’m yours", you wouldn’t proceed to do so - if only so you could say that you f**ked one of the Hilton’s.
Yet this seems to be way of the world today (I can’t comment on before today because as anyone will tell you, I was only born yesterday).
People are more widely feted because they fit certain guidelines - thus we know more about Paris Hilton than new Australian of the Year Fiona Wood (sadly, I had to look that one up), Michael Kasprowicz doesn’t get the credit he deserves because he’s taken Brett Lee’s place in the Test side, and Australian Idol finalists get coverage when they get done for drink-driving.
Paris Hilton - over-blonde, over-madeup, over-rated. I’m over it.

Yada yada yada...

2005-01-10T14:33:00.000+10:00

IN last Sunday’s Sun-Herald, there was an interesting article in one of the many magazines that fall out at inopportune times.
This article was about a group in Melbourne called "Reclaim the Pants", which basically consists of a group of blokes sitting down at a pub, having a feed and a few drinks, and basically talking crap.
If this doesn’t endear you to them (and believe me it sounded good already), then their creed would surely appeal to most Australian men.
"I believe in a world where no one has to get up off their fat arse, where empty pontifications are duly admired, where the principle of all-talk-no-action prevails, and where these truths are held to be self-evident, so help me God."
Spectacular, isn’t it?
The best thing about this group is that you have to have a y chromosome to join in. If you’re not male, you’re not going.
To me it sort of seems like a sporting club for those that don’t get the chance to play sport for one reason or another.
In the sporting clubs I’ve played for, after training or after the game is always a great time to sit with your mates and talk absolute shit.
Not pretend shit, or that serious, semi-non-humorous talk that you have to do when the missus is around, but pure, unadulterated shit.
Because let’s face it, men do talk a lot of shit when they’re together.
An example in the article was about which was Spandau Ballet’s greatest hit - Gold or True (the first-mentioned was way better).
And that’s basically what we do.
Sure, there’s always the occasional period of introspection that happens when one of your number is going through a bad time, but the rest of it is basic nothingness.
This is actually quite a good thing - crapping on about the differences between Warney and Magilla or who is the best-looking of the pop princesses gallivanting around the place sure beats sitting at home moping because the footy doesn’t start until some other garbage finishes.
For some of us, talking shit is the best way we have of releasing the stresses that modern life seems to throw at us.
There was going to be more, but I’ve just realised the Tsunami Appeal cricket match is on, and Ricky Ponting and Brian Lara are batting against Muttiah Muralitharan.
Good thing to watch, crap thing to cause it.

Didja hear what happened to…

2004-12-19T17:38:00.000+10:00

Yes folks, it’s nearly Christmas, with all the usual fun and festivities associated therein.
While some like to think of Christmas as a time of sharing and caring, it’s rather more like a time of loose lips and hot tips. As people enjoy some Christmas spirits (and anyone in Cooma would know I’ve enjoyed plenty of those so far this month), they’re also enjoying the spread of these nasty things called rumours and gossip.
These are rather unfortunately unavoidable. You can sit in your corner, say nothing, and still have some slack-jawed gossip make stuff up about you.
Indeed, one place I’ve worked at had the local gum-chewers working overtime before they’d even got a chance to figure out what my failings were.
It’s rather easy to start a rumour.
All you have to do is to make a comment about someone - framing it like a hypothetical or rhetorical question - to the right person. If you talk to the right person, they’ll take it as a statement of fact, spreading it like warm butter along the whole loaf of bread that is their community.
Among my personal favourites are that I’m gay (straight as a ruler), my parents are in some way related (only because at one stage they were married), and that I hated rugby league (please note any number of previous posts).
But they’re not too bad. If nothing else, you learn who your friends are - they tend to ask first, whereas others just like to snigger behind your back.
Actually, it’s the whole behind-the-back thing that really gives me the runs (not just in cricket either).
Granted, there are always going to be times where you need to blow off steam about someone to someone else. This can be rather beneficial, as person number 3 may be able to offer some kind of alternate insight into what’s bothering you.
But going around telling everyone that someone is incompetent/an arsehole/a right royal prick because of one thing or another - while still being "nice" to their face - is just plain wrong.
We’re all guilty of this - including myself on more than five occasions - but I still see no real reason for it.
In a business it can cut down morale quicker than timber workers in the Amazon, in a family it can break up a group of people you should really try to get along with anyway, and in a volunteer group it can really f^%k it right up for everybody and everything.
Anyways, that’s my rant for the time being. Here’s hoping you all have a safe and fun Christmas and New Year, without getting hit by a bus. That hurts apparently.

I was drunk, needed the money...

2004-12-13T14:45:00.000+10:00

As promised earlier on in the piece, here are some more tips and tricks of the trade that I've picked up in my 20-odd years of existence. Enjoy.

Nice guys don't finish last.
They don't finish first either. Nope, nice guys will generally finish in the minor placings. This sounds all well and good, but ask Geelong Cats or North Sydney Bears fans what it's like to just miss out on the major prize...

Learn the words to some songs.
Every self-respecting Australian planning to travel should know the words to Khe Sanh, Down Under, and I Still Call Australia Home. This is not optional.
Optional songs you can learn include Working Class Man, (You Shook Me) All Night Long, Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again (or at least the chant) and Advance Australia Fair.
Note I haven't included Waltzing Matilda. You should know the words to this already. If you don't know the words to this, there are support groups available (I Don't Know The Words To Waltzing Matilda Anonymous (IDKTWTWMA) is a good start).

Reputations count.
To a point. In the Big Smoke, you can have any kind of a reputation, but can hide away in one of the many niches around the place until it's changed.
In country areas though, once you've got a reputation, you're stuck with it.
And remember, first impressions count - so if you've got a reputation as a bit of a Romeo or as the town bike - you're stuck with it for a very long period of time.
The only way to avoid this is to get the hell out of town, or maintain a quiet dignity. But they'll probably get you for that anyway.

I'm from Queensland.
But that doesn’t mean I support the Brisbane Broncos. In fact, I support pretty much every national sporting league team from Queensland - so long as they’re not the Broncos.
I don’t know why I dislike them so much - but gee it was good to see North Queensland beat them last year. Soooooooo gooooood...

This is all highly unoriginal, but a chap by the name of John Saffron beat us all to it when he wrote Not The Sunscreen Song.
But hey - who cares?

Take the money and run...

2004-12-07T13:15:00.000+10:00

ANOTHER year is coming to a screeching close - much to my disgust.
As someone with a December birthday it’s only natural that it happens to be my favourite month. How often do you get birthday, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, cricket and warm (drinking) weather in the one month?
This year was a little different - I’ve now reached what is known as the Mid-Twenties. (Coincidentally the top temps here in Cooma are also just reaching the Mid-Twenties).
But as someone who’s now (allegedly) moved on from the wasteful behaviour of the Late Teens and Early Twenties, I feel it only right that I pass on these small chunks of information to the rest of you in the vain hope you might actually pay attention.
So here are my top tips (in no particular order) about life, the universe and everything.

Music is good.
Let’s face it, there’s nothing better than to kick back on a day off, chuck a favourite cd/album/mp3/tape on and just relax.
But wait - there’s more.
You can put it on in the car to stop you from going stir-crazy on long trips, you can dance to it, and you can put it on at work and listen to Fleetwood Mac and Crowded House instead of the staff bitching.

Alcohol impairs your judgement.
Really. Honest and truly. How else to explain why women would want to go out with me?
Jokes aside, who hasn’t woken up with the sinking feeling they’ve quite seriously f___ed up? Sometimes it’s immediately obvious - they’re in the bed with you wanting breakfast, sometimes it’s the pounding head and mutinous stomach, and sometimes it’s your boxer shorts on the roof.
This leads to a little game I like to call "What Did I Do Last Night?", or in some cases the always-funny "Who Did I Do Last Night?".
Of course most people will play these games at one stage, so when it’s your turn, remember to smile.

Microsoft is useful. To a point.
After that point, it’s just a pain in the arse.
In my own profession it’s vitally important to make sure spelling and grammar are correct. As such, the little green squiggly lines often come up to alert me of a potential problem.
The problem is when they alert me to something I didn’t want, like a missing "that", as opposed to some other more obvious problems, like no full stop at the end of a sentence.
Likewise trying to get the right answer when you use that annoying bloody paper clip for help. I think I’d rather take my chances asking Mr Ed.

Some men have "it".
The rest of us don’t.
Of course, if anyone can actually figure out what "it" is, could they please post a comment at the bottom of this page and let the rest of us poor souls in on the secret.

Karaoke takes balls.
It’s also very dangerous when the silly bugger running the machine decides to give you an easy seven or eight songs in a row, including at least one by AC/DC.
This will leave you with a rather dry throat and a croaky voice for the rest of the week (which is a good reason to only do it at the end of the week).
Drinking more alcohol won’t help - it makes your voice worse. On the upside though, more grog can lead to some very interesting performances, especially of Joe Cocker’s Leave Your Hat On.

There’s more than this - but I’ll add those at a later stage in the space/time continuum.

Please note I've finally figured out how to limit the number of posts on the front page. If you want to read previous posts, click on the "Previous Posts" section on the right of the screen. If you don't want to read previous posts, it doesn't matter now does it?

Listen to the music

2004-12-05T14:58:00.000+10:00

Please allow me to introduce myself,

I'm a man of wealth and taste...

Actually, I'm only one of those two, and that is a matter under much discussion. But what better way to kick off a column about music than with the Rolling Stones Sympathy For The Devil.

Music is one of those things that can reach us in very different ways. Some like to music to dance to, some like music for background, some like music to put them in a certain mood.

There are some songs that, for one reason or another, stay in the memory for a long time. Sometimes there's no real reason, but quite often the real beauty behind these songs is the lyrics contained within.

Guess there are times when we all need to share a little pain,

And ironing out the rough spots,

Is the hardest part when memories remain,

And it's times like these when we all need to hear the radio,

'Cause from the lips of some old singer,

We can share the troubles we already know.

Bernie Taupin wrote the lyrics, Elton John the music as well as the performance of Sad Songs (Say So Much).

As would be expected, there are a lot of songs that deal with heartbreak, ask the big questions, yada yada yada. Not all of these apply to everyone - I can't say I can relate to half the soppy stuff that comes out - but which male hasn't asked himself Is She Really Going Out With Him?, as so memorably sung by Joe Jackson and Sugar Ray.

After a breakup there are a number of "revenge" songs about how someone is better off without you really and why the dickens did I ever bother going out with you? For matching malice and profanities you really can't go past Eamon and Frankee's F___ It (I Don't Want You Back) and F___ You Right Back.

As someone with a little more class (allegedly), my own preference is for songs like Amiel's Lovesong or Pete Murray's So Beautiful.

God my fingers burn,

Now when I think of touching your hair,

You have changed so much that I don't know,

If I can call you and tell you I care,

And I would love to bring you down,

Plant your feet back on the ground,

You think you're so beautiful (so beautiful)...

There are other songs though. One song that never fails to touch home is Redgum's I Was Only 19 (A Walk In The Light Green). The song was based on the experience of a Vietnam vet, with the lyrics telling a story better than any tv show ever could.

Another Vietnam War song is Cold Chisel's Khe Sanh. While telling the story of a Vietnam vet who made it back, there's a part somewhere in the lyrics that most people can relate to. A catchy chorus helps as well.

There are other popular songs that we relate to - two old favourites are the Counting Crows' Mr Jones and Train's Drops Of Jupiter (Tell Me).

Mr Jones and me tell each other fairytales,

And we stare at the beautiful women,

"She's looking at you - I don't think so, she's looking at me",

Smiling in the bright lights,

Coming through in stereo,

When everybody loves you, you can never be lonely...

___________________________________________

Tell me, did you sail across the sun,

Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded,

That heaven is overrated,

Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star,

One without a permanent scar,

And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

All very meaningful really, and all relevant at one stage in the past.

But for those of you who have had the fortitude to hang around, the final two songs for today are ones that really do sum it all up.

Got the motor running, got the rest of my days,

Sold everything I owned for a song,

So anytime you want babe, you can come around,

But don't leave it too late, you just might find me gone...

Cold Chisel's Bow River is a classic, as is this one:

Some things in life are bad,

They can really make you mad,

Other things just make you swear and curse,

When you're chewing on life's gristle,

Don't grumble, give a whistle,

And this'll help things turn out for the best...

And...

Always look on the bright side of life,

Always look on the light side of life,

If life seems jolly rotten,

There's something you've forgotten,

And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing,

When you're feeling in the dumps,

Don't be silly chumps,

Just purse your lips and whistle, that's the thing...

Monty Python's Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life. A classic, and where we end today's show.

The joys of summer

2004-11-26T14:51:00.000+10:00

IT’S summer again, and a young man’s thoughts turn to flights of fancy - anything fancy will do actually.
Yes ladies and gentlemen, it’s the time of year when the tv and radio are taken over by "more bloody cricket", people try to make themselves go brown and men enjoy the freedom of movement enjoyed by women in their summer clothes.
Ah, women. For every joke they have about us being ignorant, dumb bastards, we’ve got ones back - although we dare not repeat them in polite company. Some call this cowardice, I call it life-preservation.
How different are the sexes? Are all males just compulsive oglers, only thinking with their stomachs and what hangs off it, proof the evolution can go backwards? Are those of us blessed with the Y chromosome only blessed with an ability to reverse-park and drink excessive amounts of alcohol? And what about those bloody women?
So strap in gentlemen, as we go through the type of women you’re likely to come across (in Australia at least).

The ANTI-SOCIAL woman
Actually, she’s not all that anti-social - she loves going out for a few with her friends and enjoying what life throws at her. This is wonderful, as it gives a couple time apart - but woe betide the poor fool who tries to do the same.
Any gentleman shacked up with one of these women and comes home smelling of beer or ciggies will cop it from both barrels (sometimes literally rather than metaphorically).
The only way to have a relatively peaceful night out is to fill out Form 1080A (Application for Night’s Leave). This may or may not be approved - but if you haven’t filled out one of these for a while, why not try for Form 1080B (Application for Time Away).
Please note this kind of woman will not, under any circumstances, approve Form 1046 (Application for a Gold Pass).

The GAMES woman
The only thing you’re guaranteed with this woman is that she’ll try to mess with your head.
The type of game she likes to play tends to vary a bit - from the always fun "On Again/Off Again" game, to the ever-popular "You Don’t Pay Me Enough Attention So I’m Going To Flirt With Every Male Here". This game is even more fun when she decides to flirt with your best mate. And the silly bugger flirts back.
There is good news though blokes - this kind of woman generally ends up with a bloke who does the same thing to her. Who said karma doesn’t apply?

The QUIET woman
These are the ones you have to watch out for. The quiet, peaceful soul by day could turn out to be Mr Hyde’s evil sister by night. Or not.
Quiet women are really hard to read, as they just keep it all inside, storing it up until it all comes out - just like a really bad volcano actually.
There would be more information about this kind of woman, but our spy is currently in hospital suffering third-degree burns to most of his body from molten hot lava. Experts say it’s the first injury of its kind seen in Australia.

The DRINKING woman
Hey, this is what we’re after! Isn’t it? A woman to come out and enjoy the wonders of alcohol with you?
Sadly, no. Just as men become more like women when they drink (talk excessively without making sense, argue over nothing, can’t drive), women become more like men when they drink. Think biffoes, brawls, and lots of scratching.
This woman is rather unlikely to take to kindly at you admiring another girl’s shirt (or what lies within), and definitely won’t be too keen on you actually talking to them.

The FUNNY woman
Is this the one we’re after? Again, it depends.
If she thinks Monty Python, Red Dwarf and/or various "boys" movies are funny then all the better.
If she thinks that the best kind of humour is the type that makes you look like an imbecile, then there are problems.
If you find yourself with one of these women, the best bet is to make jokes about Life, the Universe and Everything, rather than about specific people. That way you’re both laughing.

This is a far from definitive guide - there’s any number of sub-branches that are waiting to be discovered.
So why do we go for women? Well, they smell better, are generally more fun to touch, and don’t have that excess of hair that makes men so… whatever it is we are.
But gee they’re a strange bunch.

Those were the days my friend...

2004-10-21T11:51:00.000+10:00

RIGHT about now there’s a whole heap of year 12 students across Australia that are in an advanced state of stress because of their last-ever exams for school.
At the end of these exams the students head into the Real World, where instead of pulling on a uniform and going to school for six or seven hours a day they may now have the privilege of pulling on a uniform and working for up to 12 hours a day.
This won’t happen for everybody though - a large number of students will take the opportunity to further their education at TAFE (Technical and Further Education if my memory serves me correctly) colleges or universities. This path has the wonderful bonus of being in a group where excessive drinking is not explicitly encouraged, but certainly isn’t going to get you banned from good parties (unless you go completely overboard, which is not a good thing).
But the whole way the exams are done in New South Wales has many students a wee bit concerned.
Year 12 students down here sit for their Higher School Certificate (HSC), with these final exams apparently make up 50% of the total mark over two years for that subject.
I say apparently, because I did my own schooling in Queensland, where things are broken up a little more.
As can be expected some are rather concerned about this, especially those who want to get into a high-powered career like medicine or law. Then there are those who add atmosphere to the local pub’s trivia night every Wednesday by making an awful lot of noise and making it hard to hear the questions.
But surely there has to be a better way than saying that one exam is half your mark. What happens for the other three semesters - do you just bludge them and just do really well on the finals? Who knows.
There’s also concern in the scientific community that there’s not enough young scientists coming through. Figures in a Sydney Morning Herald article show that 17% of year 12 students studied chemistry in 2002 and 16% physics. This compares with 33 and 29 per cent respectively in 1980.
I can only give my view on this as one of those who started off on a science course and didn’t quite get through.
It would seem to me that to be a successful scientist you have to really enjoy what you’re doing and want to do it. My own enthusiasm waned once you got past the "add this to this and make a pretty colour" and into entropies, electron valances and the bonding of carbon with non-metals in an alkaline solution.
Instead of studying all these worthwhile things, I was instead espousing my views on cricket newsgroups about whether Matthew Hayden should be in the Test side (his average was in the 20’s at that stage), drawing random things on my lab coat (never give me a permanent marker) and going out every other weekend (all good, clean, wholesome fun).
It wasn’t until I failed pretty much every subject that I decided journalism might be more rewarding personally - thanks to a suggestion or two.
But how do we get more people following the path I stepped off? Perhaps we should place more importance on what these people do, celebrating a major scientific discovery much the same way we celebrated Michael Clarke’s century on debut. This would encourage more kids to at least have a go at the sciences, increasing the talent pool from which we get our "elite athletes" of that field.
Sport’s all well and good, but it wouldn’t hurt to hail the achievements of our more mentally flexible people.

Miller Mr Cool

2004-10-12T11:23:00.000+10:00

TO modify a famous phrase, some people are born cool, some become cool, and some have coolness thrust upon them. Keith Ross Miller had all three.
It was perhaps fate that a man named after early aviation heroes Keith and Ross Smith would go on to fly fighter planes during World War II. It was here that Miller made friends, lost friends, and came close to losing his life on more than one occasion.
A fan of classical music, during one mission Miller decided to make a detour so he could fly over Bonn simply so he could see the birthplace of Beethoven. How cool is that?
Miller had made his first class debut for Victoria before the war, in a non-Sheffield Shield match against Tasmania in 1938. There he hit 181 in the first innings - and did not bowl.
In fact, it wasn’t until the 1940/41 season that Miller actually had a bowl. Playing for Stan McCabe’s XI against Don Bradman’s XI at the MCG, Miller opened the bowling in the second innings after Bradman’s XI followed-on and took the wicket of Kenneth Ridings. Ridings was one of many first-class cricketers to die during WWII, which also included Australian Test player Ross Gregory and England spinner Hedley Verity.
Perhaps Miller’s later behaviour should be seen from that perspective. He never considered himself a bowler - at one point he tossed a ball back to Bradman after being asked to bowl. Bradman threw it back and simply said "bowl". Miller bowled.
Miller’s bowling talents were found out by accident. After WWII there were a number of "Victory" Tests in 1945 between England and an Australian Services team. In the first of these at Lord’s Miller was the fifth bowler used - and promptly bowled Test player Bill Edrich.
Just for good measure he then hit 105 in the first innings.
By the end of the series he was opening the bowling, as well as adding another century to his collection. In his final match of the 1945 season Miller hit an astonishing 185 that was described by those who saw it as one of the greatest batting displays.
As a bowler he was described by England’s Len Hutton as being one of the hardest to face. Miller took wickets with quick balls, slow balls, leg-breaks, googlies, off-breaks, bouncers - pretty much anything that involved releasing the ball from the right hand. His run-up also changed more than the Aussie dollar - some days only a couple of paces, some days 15 paces, some days not bowling full stop. He could generally get away with this as he was still worth his place in the side of just a batsman.
Miller was a big fan of a contest. In the 1955 Ashes Test at the Adelaide Oval England only needed 94 runs to win and take a 3-1 series lead. Miller came out, took the wickets of Hutton, Edrich and Colin Cowdrey cheaply to leave England at just 3/18. He later threw out his back - which had been injured during the war - and England stumbled home by five wickets.
If it wasn’t a contest Miller wasn’t interested. In 1948 Australia racked up 729 runs in just one day, of which Miller added exactly 0. He shouldered arms to future England player Trevor Bailey first ball.
For Miller, cricket was only ever a game - one of many he excelled at. He played Australian rules for St Kilda, and dreamt of being a jockey before a growth spurt sent him up around the six foot mark. Perhaps his whole attitude can be summed up in one quote.
"Pressure?" he said.
"I’ll tell you what pressure is. Pressure is a Messerschmitt up your arse, playing cricket is not."
How cool is that?

Cowboys Anonymous

2004-09-27T14:53:00.000+10:00

Hello, my name is Stuart and I’m a North Queensland Cowboys supporter.
Actually, you don’t need to do that anymore. The success of the Cowboys has meant that wandering around in a supporters jersey is no longer the modern-day equivalent of putting your head in the stocks and waiting for the rotten fruit to be hurled.
For those of us from the north it’s been a great year. In ten years of playing, the Cowboys have been a catchphrase for mediocrity. Actually they’ve been positively striving for mediocrity. Just finishing more than two places above last was normally a good excuse to celebrate, so finishing fourth is nothing short of a miracle.
Yet there’s still an empty feeling. The Cowboys pushed the Roosters all the way, and had the ref put in his contact lenses before going out in the field we may well have won. My own view was that there should have been a penalty against Anthony Minichiello for taking out a player without the ball with about 60 seconds left to go. (Funny, I seem to recall Minichiello taking out a player from NQ without the ball before…)
But, I’m afraid to say, this has been a shithouse year for me and sport. Not because the teams I’ve followed have been shithouse, but because their promises of success have generally fallen a few yards short of realistic expectations.
Take the Australian cricket team. At the start of the year they were supposed to comprehensively thrash an Indian side who still hated the ball coming up above the waist. Not only did they not thrash them, but they also came close to losing in final test.
The Queensland cricket team then tripped while taking up the baton. In the one-day final they looked home and hosed against Western Australia before not one, but two main bowlers went down with cramp. WA got the runs and I got the shits.
Then when things looked like picking up, Jimmy Maher decided to send Victoria into bat in the four-day final. Victoria were closer to 1000 runs than 100 by the end of their innings, and Queensland got pumped by an innings and plenty.
State pride was restored a little when the Queensland Reds beat the NSW Waratahs again in the Super 12 rugby union, only to be deflated by The Fluke Of The Century (Shaun Timmins kicking a field goal to win the first State of Origin for NSW). Billy Slater helped to win game 2, only for NSW to do us again in game 3 and thus condemn yours truly to a week of insufferable pain caused by gloating NSW supporters (you know who you are, and you are going to a bad place when you die).
The Canberra Raiders - who had been widely tipped to make the top four this year in the NRL - didn’t even play like the girl with the curls. When they were good it was a bloody miracle, and when they were bad they lost to Manly.
The Brisbane Lions got done in the grand final against Port Adelaide - more guffaws from "friends" who solemnly declared Port were their second favourite team (do I look like I was born yesterday?).
And now the Cowboys’ fairytale is over. But that’s the great thing about sport - there’s always next year, and as a cricket tragic, I hereby declare it to be next year.
And you know what? My name’s Stuart, and I’m a Cowboys fan. And bloody proud of it.

This one goes out to the one...

2004-09-22T14:40:00.000+10:00

Another day, another fatigue-filled, high-stress, high-caffeine low-health food day.
The last three days - nay, three weeks - have been one tired stumble to another. Even as I write this it's a struggle to try and make it into something that's witty, worthwhile and meaningful.
Given how much I struggle at the best of times to do that I don't know why I worry.
In fact, worrying is probably half the problem. If there's something worth worrying about, chances are I'll be there wondering about whether or not it was done right. This is particularly true in my job, where people can (and do) get mighty upset about not getting an article or photo in the paper when and where they wanted them. Otherwise people occasionally (but not often) crack the shits about something when you go out of your way to help them.
In the interests of finding out if there was a way of sleeping the whole night and de-stressing (is this a real word? Probably not, but who cares) I had a peek on the net.
On one site I found they had listed six different types of stress - Speed Freak, Worry Wart, Drifter, Loner, Basket Case and Cliff Walker. Each stress type had a little description, while elsewhere you could vote as to which type was yours.
Problem here is I've managed to score on all six counts. I'm not saying which - but as a fun exercise why not take the traits and see if you can make your own stressed-out me!
Of course it would all help if we were all just the bit more honest with each other. A big problem for many young males is that they don't know when a conversation with a nice female doesn't mean they want to sleep with you. One girl made it quite clear the other night she wasn't keen ("I'm not interested"), and I'm fairly sure we had an intelligent conversation after that (this was after quite a few drinks which have dimmed my memory of most things, so don't hold this as being a true and accurate record).
So a little more honesty people - let me sleep at night!

You can kick off your search for your own personal stress type at http://stress.about.com/cs/inthenews/a/worrywart.htm

Spare the condescending

2004-09-12T21:34:00.000+10:00

After ten years as the joke team of the ARL/SL/NRL/whatever, North Queensland have finally shown they're capable of winning more than the wooden spoon. For long-suffering NQ fans like myself this is finally a chance to very quietly get one back at those who seek to poke fun at people who go for bottom sides.
It's actually been a pretty good year for that, what with St Kilda and Geelong now in the final four of the AFL. I can certainly sympathise with Geelong fans - their task next weekend is similar to the one the Cowboys faced on Saturday night against the Bulldogs.
It was a win for the ages then - one for those of us who've endured wooden spoon after wooden spoon, the igonomy of winning the opening four matches of 1998 to finish 16th out of 20, who've had to endure the smugness of opposition fans when they come to play us. Such was my own lack of confidence in the game that anyone who said we'd get done got a small nod of the head and the standard "just happy to be there" line. Being down in Cooma, NSW means there's a fair few more Bulldogs fans than NQ fans.
But please, oh please, spare me the inane questions, the inane comments by a certain commentary team in the last few weeks.
"Fans in Townsville, Cairns, Mackay etc, your team is in the finals." What, don't those of us living elsewhere count?
"What does this win mean for the people of NQ?" It means they've got another excuse to go out and get pissed on the weekend.
"What would a home semi against the Broncos mean to NQ?" It means we've got a chance of finally beating those cocky bloody Broncos.
Fair dinkum, blind Freddie could see that we're all very happy with our team's performance. Please spare me this condescending rubbish - Brad Fittler doesn't get asked what a premiership means to Sydney, so why the f^#! should we?

Watch your names

2004-08-09T14:53:00.000+10:00

It’s probably fair to say that none too many people have read a book written by someone in an end-of-year music chart and laughed quite considerably.
It’s probably fair to say none too many people have read a book by a music charter full-stop. By and large the only thing I want to read by a performer is a songbook with music and lyrics.
But while idly perusing through the end-of-year ARIA charts I happened across number 21 for 1988, a little ditty called "Stutter Rap" by Morris Minor and the Majors.
If you haven’t heard of this song before, don’t despair. I’d only heard of it for the first time when Morris Minor, aka Tony Hawks, released a book called "One Hit Wonderland".
Tony Hawks is a Pom (Englishmen for those who prefer proper terms), and has written three books, all about bets. "One Hit Wonderland" involves a bet he made to get a top-20 single anywhere in the world. "Round Ireland With A Fridge" details how Tony went around Ireland with a fridge (a 100 pound bet), while "Playing the Moldavans At Tennis" examines the difficulties involved in trying to play a national soccer team at tennis.
Now some of you may be thinking the name Tony Hawks is familiar - doesn’t one of the kids idolise him? A quick check with the nearest "with-it" kid may find that name is one used by a professional skate-boarder. If so, beat the kid over the head with a large object (cricket bats are my personal favourite) and tell them they are wrong.
You see, one of the funniest parts of Tony Hawks website is when he replies to people who think he is Tony Hawk, professional skateboarder. Lots of unfortunates write to Tony Hawks asking for tips. Messer Hawks gives these two for starters:
Don't stand downwind of flatulent people, and try not to get involved in leapfrogging unicorns.
True words if ever I’ve heard them.
Thinking that people who read books were more intelligent than kid skateboarders, I e-mailed the web people for Tony Hawk and asked if they’d heard of the author. They said they had, and yes, they did get e-mails for him.
So what’s the bloody point? Check names before you write/talk etc peoples. You may get severely embarrassed by a smart-arse author.

The e-mails and their replies can be found at http://www.tony-hawks.com/skatemail.php.

And for those who don't give a rats, I've now changed jobs to be a sports writer. This means I can now quite legitimately look up Inside Sport and claim it's expanding my knowledge and understanding of the world around me.

Adultescents!?!

2004-06-24T16:45:00.000+10:00

There's been a lot of talk recently about "adultescents", these so-called adults who apparently still have the mind-set of teenagers and quite frankly, don't give a rat's about anything.
According to some psychologist-type person, these people, generally aged between 18 and 30, like to use the internet, mobile phones, and use irreverent humour.
Oh dear. This is starting to sound like yours truly.
It does get more specific though for those who think this may sound like young-person bashing.
David Chalke, who wrote a report on these misguided souls, said people in their twenties just don't want to worry about something in the future.
"They don't save because they don't aspire to settle down. Even if they become connected to a partner, they still rent, because they want money now to spend on themselves. They don't think in terms of a career - just a series of jobs, because they get bored easily. They don't invest, because they want instant gratification," he is quoted as saying in the Sydney Morning Herald.
By the way, if I hear one more "x is the new y", I'm going to take to that person with an axe. It's mentioned a number of times in the article (link below), and makes me want to find their "Big Book of Cliches" and burn it.
Chalke then goes on to say these adultescents want to buy designer clothes, gadgets, travel to movies etc.
Now this is eerily familiar.
I don't want to settle down, will be renting until the Second Coming - because of high housing prices, not because I want more money (it would be nice), and don't invest because living tends to cut into the old bank account.
As for a series of jobs, who doesn't want to explore all possibilities? In my case, travelling and working is perfect for my career as it gives me more life experience to draw on to make things (like this I hope) more interesting.
And anyway, who wants to settle down in their 20s when the average life expectancy is around 80? I couldn't live with my family for 20 years, not too sure how I'd go with someone for 50 or 60.
What's of more concern to me is the number of young adults who aren't independent in any way, shape or form. Those who still live with their parents, who don't give a rats about the world and who just care about finding someone who's socially acceptable or has the right look, instead of someone who does care.
We saw an excellent example of this in Australia recently when a crowd during a "Big Brother" eviction booed rather loudly when a bloke named Merlin was evicted.
Merlin had come out with his mouth taped up and a sign saying "Free th refugees" (the 'e' fell off). He wanted to bring the issue back to the attention of Australia.
Without getting into the refugee issue here, what he did was very brave. Normally contestants come out, look happy/sad/bewildered, say some banal words which get a cheer from the audience, then shuffle onto Rove Live a couple of days later then out of sight.
Merlin took the opportunity to actually make his convictions clear, and in doing so put himself on the line.
The crowd's reaction? Boooooo!
As for the cost of living out of home being too expensive, what a load of rubbish.
The problem seems to be that younger people can't really budget, or use the credit card up too much. Ask any uni student who's had to move somewhere to get ahead how hard it is.
Most will tell you how they got by on less than A$15,000 a year.
I can't believe people who are earning more than that ($30,000 +) can't live out of home.
If you can't, there's something seriously wrong with your priorities. Designer clothing and gadgets are good, but going for a night on the town without your Mum asking when you're going to be back and not to make so much noise next time?
Priceless.
I'll take independence over gadgets any day - and I reckon sometime down the track I'll be able to have both.

The article on the adultescents is at http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2004/05/24/1085389339741.html

Go you good things!

2004-06-17T10:18:00.000+10:00

Well, another night, another Origin.
It would be remiss of me not too mention the fact the right team won on the night, making up for the Fluke of the Century (Shaun Timmins field-goal) in the previous game.
If nothing else, these Origin matches are a definite show of where you come from. There aren't too may of my friends from Queensland who don't regard State of Origin as something approaching a religious experience, a chance for us to put the wind up those pesky NSW people who think they're better.
This is especially true when you live south of the border, where walking around in a maroon jersey (like me last night) is like putting on some duck wings at the start of the season and parading around in front of people just itching to shoot something.
The abuse, or verbal encouragement, wasn't too bad. There was one idiot who starting rubbing my hair at the start of the game every time NSW did well (which was often). That sorted itself out eventually (he left the room), while a couple of people tried to insults by calling us Queenslanders.
Short of saying we're God himself, I can't think of a better compliment.
Unfortunately, this view is not shared by those down here, for whom Queenslanders are those pesky things who make a habit of being very loud and annoying and sponging off the NSW Government etc etc.
This "talking down" of Queensland was actually mentioned by now-deposed chairman of the ABA (Australian Broadcasting Authority) David Flint.
Professor Flint was speaking at an official ABA reception in Brisbane in 1998, soon after 11 One Nation MP's had been elected to the Queensland Parliament.
Strangely enough the Queensland election had been deemed to be news all around the world, including the BBC World Service. Prof Flint made the point a lot of these news outlets were somewhat hypocritical when criticizing Queensland.
"But having read some of the reports, and comments, in other foreign media, I find it surprising that I have not previously read or seen or heard of media warnings not to trade or invest, or be educated in France, or Germany, or Austria, or Malaysia, or Indonesia," Prof Flint said.
"Outbreaks of extreme violence, of murders, of requirements for separate passports, or mandatory name changes, the rise of extremely racist parties even in ancient European civilisations have not resulted in editorials that these nations must mend their ways. That they are being watched."
Prof Flint also gave his view that perhaps some of the reporting of the election was clouded by views of people from outside the state. He cites the example of a heading "Finding solutions for simpletons" on a Paul Kelly opinion piece on One Nation in The Australian newspaper.
"It seems that the reporting of the Queensland election has been clouded by the views, preferences and, dare I say it, the prejudices of some of those conveying the news and commenting on it."
Queensland is not perfect - not by any stretch of the imagination. But perhaps some quotes from Australian pressman John Pringle should finish this - just like Prof Flint did.
Australians say that when a stranger arrives in Perth, the first question is
"Where do you come from?"
In Adelaide, it's
"What Church do you belong to?"
In Melbourne it's
"What school were you at?
In Sydney it's
"How much money have you got?"
In Brisbane they say
"Come and have a drink"

If you're ever up that way, come and have a drink.

Professor Flint's speech can be found here