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Sky rockets in flight, Mystery Pub delight

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It’s likely the best four-word sentence after, ‘I love you too.’ But it might be unsurpassed on a Friday at 5pm.

Of course I speak of, ‘Yes, it’s happy hour.’

Speaking to us the (responsible) server of drinks smiled and then we did too. What a marvellously imagined and wonderous abode was this world! Bursting with uncomplicated joys and happy whisperings.

And the clock had indeed struck five on Belair Road in Kingswood country. Claire requested a white wine while I went on beer holiday with a Pirate Life Pale Ale. We were in the Torrens Arms, home pub of my old footy club, The Unley Jets, which could be why despite my anonymity I was gifted a complimentary beer. Now I insert into this story the first in a series of outwardly random but thematically relevant song lyrics: My motto’s always been, ‘When it’s right, it’s right.’

Pulling into the carpark earlier, the tavern was snug and confident, a site of sanctuary, with its honeyed brickwork and pretty façade soaked in slanting autumnal light. Everything’s a little clearer in the light of day.

We scurried through the vacant dining room (too early even for fugitive Queensland pensioners) and arrived in the murmuring bar, ordered refreshment, and then decided where we’d drop anchor. Why wait until the middle of a cold, dark night?

With singlets stretched about truckers’ torsos and raucous toddlers and loud, unaware types, in this affluent suburb, beer gardens are instead known as courtyards. Likely lingering after lunch, some chaps occupy a neighbouring spot. Sunny weekend music coasts overhead. It’s a relaxed, alluring place and against the wall rests a bike and across the yard we see smears of vaguely green plants. In the outside dusk we claim a corner table.

Claire’s impressed and offered an affirming, ‘I could settle in here.’ I nod.

However, we hear grating traffic noise and our ill-disciplined eyes stray onto the vampiric screens and their Fox Footy pre-game jabber.

To better explore the Torrens Arms, we later relocate to a secluded nook near the bistro. Easing into the lush chairs by the fetching gas fire, we catch the distant, hazy tones of ‘Afternoon Delight’ by The Starland Vocal Band and are serenaded by its soft-focus lyrics

Thinkin’ of you’s workin’ up my appetite
Lookin’ forward to a little afternoon delight
Rubbin’ sticks and stones together make the sparks ignite
And the thought of lovin’ you is gettin’ so excitin’

How did Simon Townsend allow it to be the (admittedly short-lived) theme song to 80’s kiddy favourite Wonder World. Imagine Woodrow’s disapproval at its doggy-style suggestibility! Still, Claire and I agree it’s a fine, old, nostalgic song, inspired by a ‘happy hour experience’ in Washington, DC.

Jettisoning the pub, I note a poster advertising their Mother’s Day paint ‘n’ sip event. Is this the new communal knitting or line-dancing or pottery? For Father’s Day will I endure an awful Change the Roo-Shootin’ Ute’s Oil ‘n’ Drink Rumbo Experience? It’s a shame as I started out this mornin’ feelin’ so polite.

Otherwise, edition #42 of Mystery Pub’s been a genteel, calming affair in many senses – a true afternoon delight.

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Midnight Oil, African wild dogs and Skyshow: Adelaide’s Torrens parkrun

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Adelaide’s oldest parkrun is along the northern bank of the Torrens. Officially a river, it masquerades as a serene, fetching lake or a dam. And during drought, a puddle.

Beneath the eucalypts at a quarter to eight there’s roughly one hundred people and it swiftly swells to five hundred. An expectant mob, connected by a single, voluntary purpose and it’s great to be part of a global movement.

I feel a propulsive, rousing energy.

The Run Director takes us through his script. It’s informative for new faces and provides moments of comedic engagement. After the Acknowledgement of Country, he does a roll call asking who’s from overseas. England, Canada, New Zealand, among others. Hands are flung up and we applaud. We’re then taken on a tour of the country.

‘Anybody from Victoria?’ Arms go skywards. Melbourne. Geelong. Ballarat.

‘New South Wales?’ Folks variously confess they’re from Sydney, Wagga, Byron Bay.

‘People from Queensland?’ Hands wave above the sea of heads and torsos, and I wonder how many have on matching shoes.

Each state and territory acknowledged our host then introduces himself with, ‘I’m Ojo Dojo.’ He asks, ‘Did you bring your?’ A crowd participation moment follows as the throng choruses, ‘Mojo!’

We’re east of the weir and the Red Ochre Grill, which might be as old as red ochre. Glancing about there’s a par 3 green with capped chaps putting, gliding rowers on the lake, while rushing by, and I understand this is the collective noun, are round-gutted lycras of male cyclists.

I stand by two lads wearing AUFC caps. One announces, ‘Let’s try to run 4-minute k’s.’ His mate giggles, ‘The coach won’t be happy if we blow up!’ They laugh as only the youthful in pre-season training can. I often hated it but would gladly swap. Considering their fresh dials, they can’t even imagine being retired from footy.

Briefing’s done and we’re away.

There’s an orange-vested pacer with 25 on his back, so I latch onto him like a docking mechanism. I keep him in sight. I’ve got a plan. I’d like to again run 24-minutes something.

Like trolls we go under bridges and soon pass the BBQ buoys all moored and obediently awaiting midday rissoles, snags, and onions. Inflatable boats laden with flammable cooking equipment and grog, skippered by yoof with massively undeveloped prefrontal cortexs: what could go wrong?

To the left is Memorial Drive, venue of my first concert in 1984. It was Midnight Oil’s Red Sails in the Sunset tour with school mates, Nick, Smithy and Frosty. The Drive usually hosts tennis, and this was not that genteel leisure. More dope than double faults.

We swarm under the Torrens foot bridge which transports punters to and from Adelaide Oval. Footy and cricket have revitalised the city and highlights at the redeveloped stadium include Travis Head’s NYE pyrotechnics, the Crows and Cats preliminary final of 2017, and both Glenelg flags.

Heading west along the riverbank, the 25-minute pacer’s still a bus-length ahead, and I want to pass him on the way back. I’m chomping after him like Pacman.

Albert Bridge’s now above us, with its stylish architecture. We’re by the zoo and I recall taking my boys and the African wild dogs and their ungodly stench. Closing my eyes, I recall my nostrils smarting at their flyblown meat perfume. It’s available at Chemist Warehouse. Back at parkrun, Mistletoe Park marks the turnaround.

Among this morning’s joys is the absence of traffic noise. However, swimming into view is the slanting expanse of Elder Park. Again, I’m back in the mid-80’s. Can you hear the spectral echoes of SA-FM’s Skyshow? Is that the sexual thump of INXS beneath the swirling hiss of fireworks? Look, so many tank tops, neon colours, and foam eskies!

I put on my indicator and pass the pacer! Sheltered by trees, the finish line startles me. I loathe when the end’s in widescreen, mocking sight a long way out and like an oasis in the desert, remains maddeningly distant. Today’s threshold jumps out, hugs me and this is splendid.

Not unlike an injured emu, I hobble with hands on hips, grabbing some air. I note a groaning table of food provided by the volunteers. What a community is parkrun and especially this effervescent Torrens group. I’ve broken 25 minutes.

I take half a banana.

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We’re Submerged in Sunlight

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After the insistent, whipping squalls and sullen clouds, our fretful phone calls and the unending wiping down of the rows of plastic chairs, we’re submerged in sunlight. It streams through our hair as we amble back down the aisle beneath the soft serenity.

I love how we’re laughing at someone off-stage. It’s a mystery starring an unseen, comedic protagonist. Is Lukey saying something brash? Or is JB making a quirky quip? Can you remember? Will we ever know?

I’m in the middle of a guffaw and you’re on the edge of chuckling. It’s an affirmation, the reassurance of our world’s axis spinning as it should, a sunny instant in an impeccable day.

Kapunda High, our joyous, kindly school, is in the background watching approvingly, nodding in wise appreciation having stood witness to our teenage lives and then from both near and afar, our adulthood. A mere twelve months after this special occasion the beloved building, Eringa, was devoured by those diabolical flames and we impatiently await its reconstruction.

See the fluttering flower petals caught delicately in your curled, tumbling hair, as it cascades onto your dress: impossibly pretty, bold and deeply considered, the turquoise an exquisite, arresting hue.

With hands clasped, we’re hitched triumphantly, at ease and brightly expectant, stepping into our afternoon.

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last swim

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Life is boredom then fear.

Or at least according to the poet Philip Larkin. Fear lurks just beyond the horizon’s curve with the crawling truth that eventually everything will succumb. I’m certain I’ve played my final game of footy and probably cricket too. These are aggregated losses, joining the ever-lengthening string of diminutive deaths.

Instead, I now run thirty kilometres a week, partly driven by knowing of people whose knees or hips have called time on this. Every morning (lately under the cape of darkness) because I can, I stumble out onto the tarmac and trot beachward. I often wonder if I’m running towards a destination or from a spectre. The disquieting thought lingers: what if this is all halted? One day, of course, it will.

It’s easy to spot the opening to a sequence. A baby’s first steps, a first ever goal in a footy match, or a first love. These are commencements we can celebrate.

I love the first swim of the summer as the world opens up when the lengthy, lethargic days stretch out like a fluttering ribbon. While not endless, we sometimes pretend to ourselves that they might be.

For some pursuits, the last in a sequence can also be simple to note. Grand finals, New Year’s Eve, our last day on holiday. But for other activities, how do we reconcile not knowing which is the last? I like to think there’ll often be one more.

There’s always next year, until there isn’t, so I appreciate our beach. When I say swimming, not actual freestyle or breaststroke or anything as deliberate and exhausting as this. Just standing about in the greenish-blue shallows.

Late March and under the slanting sun, towelling off on Glenelg North’s crunchy sand, I promise myself with the next temperature spike I’ll be back down in the ocean. And then abruptly, summer vanishes and exquisite as it is, autumn arrives but swimming’s done. Some years, that anticipated next time just doesn’t come and I look back with minor regret.

To squeeze these moments like a ripe orange, I plunge in. Claire tip-toes along the sand and inches her way out, grimacing with every step. Waist-deep, we chat and look around us. My eyes dart about for stingrays and fins. I gaze north towards the West Beach Sailing Club and then south at the Marina. Flinging myself into a marching wave the salty stuff blasts by as, eyes open, I scan the corrugated floor.

Upright with water cascading off me, it’s a phantasmagoric instant and once more the beach, that narrow, ever-pulsing connector of ocean and earth, nudges me into gratitude and tranquility.

So, is adult life governed by fear? Only if we choose.

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Max. fourteen.

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Happy 14th Birthday!

Smiling, I regularly think of the note you’d leave on the fridge whiteboard – a small yet significant gesture that speaks volumes about your character. Your ability to infuse humour into everyday life, coupled with your thoughtful nature is always a delight! The simple declaration became more than just a message; it’s a testament to your wit, your creativity, and your unique perspective on the world.

the cordial is pre-made

Watching you blossom in drama has been a joy. I like you telling me about the acting challenges you’ve been set and how these are progressing. I’m excited to see you on stage later this year, playing a character and entertaining the audience. Keep embracing those opportunities to express yourself and develop your skills.

And let’s not forget about basketball – a sport in which you truly have ability. Your talent on the court is undeniable, but what sets you apart is your understanding of teamwork and being able to bring others into the game. Of special interest is your ability to navigate both victories and defeats with grace. Remember, it’s not just about winning games; it’s about the lessons learned along the way, the friendships forged, and the growth that comes with every season.

Regrets are mostly not about the things we’ve done but rather the things we didn’t do. Given this, I believe you should keep playing basketball. You can do it!

In June I’m keen for you, Alex, and I to explore Bali together. Investigating new cultures, tasting exotic foods, and experiencing different landscapes will broaden our horizons. I hope during your life you’ll keep seeking out those adventures for it’s through travel that we learn about the world and ourselves.

Your imagination is limitless, and your ability to craft immortal expressions never fails to make me laugh. Hold onto that youthful spirit and sense of wonder, for it’s what makes you extraordinary. Lastly, I want to reminisce about that moment in a Singaporean swimming pool when you made that legendary declaration to me that you were

cooler than a robot, older than the wolf

As you embark on another year of new experiences, new challenges, and new triumphs, always remember how loved and cherished you are. You have a heart of gold, a mind full of dreams, and a spirit that’s destined to soar. Happy birthday, dearest Max.

Love Dad

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Mystery Pub: The Curious Case of the King William Hotel

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‘What’s this King William pub?’ I hear you inquire. As Daryl Somers used to remark, ‘I’m glad you asked.’ The CBD has a new boozer but is it just the old Ambassadors tarted up and rebadged? We were about to find out.

I’ve limited recollection of the former tavern but know it was one patronised by our old school friend Davo when he wasn’t wading through an elongated Friday lunch at The Griffins Head. Come to think of it, not a traditional culinary meal as I’m confident Davo doesn’t eat food.

Claire suffered a morning blowout on her acutely heeled shoe and like the Better Home and Gardens craft-segment host she secretly aspires to be, taped it up with clandestine assistance from some borrowed office supplies. It was fortunate that we only needed a brisk stroll from her Light Square workplace and so the only victim was the reduced opportunity for mystery to build for Mystery Pub (a key ingredient), but like Tom and Daisy in The Great Gatsby, neither of us cared.

Aggregated on the wooden bar were three softly glowing lamps offering unexpected contribution to the ambiance. Adelaide pubs are over lit (fluoro the darkest crime, ironically) and could learn from the moody atmospherics of hotels in Melbourne’s Fitzroy. Once, inside two evenings I visited ten of these for research purposes although the resultant scientific paper remains troublingly unpublished or even peer reviewed.

Featuring Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, I lately read ‘The Hound of The Baskervilles’ and wondered what the Londoner sleuths would make of the pub’s beer situation. I probed, ‘Why don’t you have Coopers Pale Ale on tap?’ Mine host retorted, ‘We’re having trouble getting any.’ Peculiar, I thought, doffing my woollen cap, and extracting a pipe from the pocket of my houndstooth jacket. Noticing my appearance in the barroom mirror I was baffled to observe that in the hour since leaving my employment I’d grown a dapper, entirely Edwardian, moustache.

Safely in the beer garden there was however a sharp smell of fresh paint and utilising my detective skills I rapidly deduced that a person or persons had applied tint to the walls, probably during this past day. Inspecting the exposed bricks and decorative ladders which added to the interior design, we procured a table and during our two-drink sojourn, multitudes of Crows fans arrived with sunny expectation upon their faces, and this proved, of course, to be wholly without logic or reward.

The relationship between text and context is at its most fascinating when the boundary between these is indistinguishable. If the pub was our text and the context was our discourse, I then relished that fantastic experience of the immediate surroundings essentially vanishing as Claire recounted several items from her day. This was a delight.

A rotund troubadour then commenced a set of songs on his guitar to which he added his unexceptional singing. He played Vance Joy’s ubiquitous ‘Riptide’ and later, ‘Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)’ by the Beatles. While it incorporates splendid sitar moments from George Harrison, I newly learnt that my wife finds little value in this tune and admit that it wouldn’t make my top fifty of the Liverpudlians. Their number one? ‘And Your Bird Can Sing.’

Our scrumptious but wretchedly delayed potato dinner devoured, we farewelled the ghastly paint and the visible bricks and the now vanished musician and the ghostly lamps and the lack of kegged Coopers beer and ventured once more into the pulsing, discordant Friday city.

Alighting onto the footpath I said to Claire, ‘Careful in those shoes.’

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Three imaginary beers with my favourite author, Richard Ford

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The premise of Independence Day, Richard Ford’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, is simple. Frank Bascombe takes his sixteen-year-old son Paul on a road trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, which ends badly. In Be Mine, the final instalment of the series, the narrator and his dying middle-aged son embark upon a last road trip, this time to Mt. Rushmore.

My son Alex and I are going on a short road trip to Moana, but our first stop is Writers’ Week as I want him to again witness the merits of a life with conversations and stories. He’s largely agreeable so with little persuasive effort, we’re here to listen to Richard Ford speak about his writing and probably, the characters of Frank and Paul.

While that’s fiction and our experiences are (aspirationally) real, the parallels seem both captivating and unsettling. The thought comes to me again: I’ve delayed a road trip with my sixteen-year-old son to hear a novelist enlarge upon a father and son on two heart-breaking road trips. I trust I’m not tempting any type of cosmic irony to drape its wicked self over this bonding weekend away.

Lunchtime underneath the canopy in the Pioneer Women’s Memorial Garden. That Alex is here with an open mind and open heart, and willing to indulge his dad strikes me as a scarce act of teenaged generosity. I vow to afterwards buy him a coke for the drive. I spot the Footy Almanac’s editor-in-chief Harmsy and we’ve a quick chat.

Richard Ford is interviewed for about forty minutes, and it’s engrossing. Profoundly considered and droll and pleasingly, approaching stern when provoked, he makes references to Virginia Woolf (he’s a fan) and Samuel Beckett (he’s not a fan). I record the discussion on my phone, and Claire (elsewhere unavoidably) and I will listen to it one night soon over a Shiraz as if it’s an unedited podcast.

I rarely carry my backpack but do today just in case there’s a book signing and in it’s my beloved copy of The Sportswriter. I’ve not anticipated an autograph since Joel Garner at an Angaston Oval cricket clinic in 1975. He was the biggest human I (or likely the Barossa) had ever seen. Following our applause, the interviewer invites us to form a queue.

Rushing politely, I find myself about a dozen deep in the line. Alex stands with me. He’s a Beatles fan (for which I’m also thankful) and I say, ‘You know that chatting with this writer will be my meeting McCartney moment?’ He nods.

Introducing ourselves, we shake hands. He’s sitting at a table. Eighty-years-old and greyhound fit, Ford has hypnotically blue eyes (matching his socks) reminiscent of the late Bond but alive actor, Daniel Craig. I’ve hazily rehearsed what I say, and the opportunity doesn’t get to me as I imagined it might.   

I begin, ‘I’ve read all the Bascombe novels three times except for the last. But I will. They’ve made such a huge impact upon me, and I’ve happily accepted that I’ll pretty much re-read them constantly from here on in.’

Desperately gushing? Probably.

Richard (we’ve progressed to first names) replies with an affirming chortle, ‘Well, some books can hang around.’

I tell him the story of a Saturday night last autumn just prior to the publication of his final Bascombe novel. I explain, ‘I’d read a preview of the book and was telling my wife Claire about it over a Shiraz (now a theme, I know). And I mentioned the central tragedy of the father and son relationship and the son dying. I then realised that all this represented a loss for me too as a reader, so I shed a few tears.’

Richard continued peering at me fixedly with what I imagine’s a blend of deeply practised writerly attention and unshakeable southern manners. Acknowledging my revelations, he nods.

I’m now in full Sunday confessional mode, for I need this man to know how important his creations are to me. Perhaps I’m epiphanic, emblematically at large in New Jersey, like Frank Bascombe himself. ‘It’s the only time I’ve cried at a book before I’ve read it, such is the power of your storytelling, and the remarkable insights. Thank you for this.’

As he signs the title page, I feel a sense of gifted camaraderie. The waiting line is lengthy, and so I conclude, ‘I’m urging my wife to read your books when we retire. I talk about them so much.’

Richard laughs, ‘You’ll hand her a list!’

I also cackle, ‘I think so.’

He thanks me for coming and again we shake hands. The adage cautions against meeting your heroes but encountering this literary giant has been joyous. Alex and I stroll through the garden’s dappled light and up sundrenched King William Street.

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Mystery and Murder in Moana

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Hurtling past O’Halloran Hill on the Southern Expressway and Alex slides in a Steely Dan CD. Although he views this dad technology with bemusement, he’s also a devotee of nostalgia, and I’m thrilled he can meld irony and joy. Their jazzy and bewitching song, ‘Aja’ fills the cabin, and he mentions, ‘Manny’s dad loves this. He reckons it’s goated.’ I say, ‘It’s great. When I was at uni, I played the cassette in my old Holden going to and from Kapunda.’

Earlier at Writers’ Week we heard my favourite ever novelist, Richard Ford. Alex came to this excursion (I see no other teenagers in the garden) knowing it’s significant to me and this is heartening. Listening to the author of The Sportswriter he made connections to his Year 11 English course, and these were deliberated over the day. We returned to Ford’s point that characters are not people, but instruments of language and I’m convinced this insight puts Alex in front of his ATAR competition, should this still exist, and not a few literature teachers.

When Alex turned thirteen, we spent a night in Hahndorf and then last year on his equivalent birthday Max and I stayed in Aldinga. Claire suggested acknowledging these rites of passage and for this idea I’m most grateful. Each is an occasion to pause and talk and contribute to our future selves in novel surrounds.

Yielding again to my paternal voice I declare, ‘I think we should swim between the flags.’ Alex nods. Late afternoon at Moana beach, it’s chilly in the water but splashing about we promptly acclimatise. Irregular sets of waves march in from the icy Southern Ocean and some hoist themselves up as green walls, while others crumple sullenly about us, all slovenly foam and disagreeability. This burst of activity provides a relaxing physical context on which to hang this sparkling day. We catch a couple each and are rushed shoreward like straw.

For dinner it’s the esplanade’s Deep Blue Café. We’re sat by the windows and the sun slants in, all gilded and promising. It’s a cheerful, assured place with table service and over pepperoni pizza and a fat burger talk moves to Alex’s favourite Beatle, George Harrison. While I’m a McCartney man I see the appeal of the band’s youngest Liverpudlian with his quiet genius and affable ways. I say, ‘How amazing that he was only twenty-six when the Beatles finished.’ Musically, Alex’s unquenchable and sees no generation gaps as his preferences range from Kanye to Miles to 1970’s Japanese avant-garde. Hopefully, this cultural inquisitiveness is a predictor of a hearty, fulfilling life.

Back in our dune-side cabin we speak of the soundtrack for the film Alex’s making and how esteemed directors Wes Anderson and Quentin Tarantino use wistful music in their art. He plays ‘Miserlou’ by Dick Dale, made famous in the Pulp Fiction opening credits. Intrigued by Bob Dylan, he’s shortlisted several of his tunes for their project and asks, ‘Do you think Paul Kelly is the Australian Bob Dylan?’ It’s an essential, probing question.

We then turn on the tele. As he’s about forty years too young for Escape to the Country, I surrender the remote.A Bond film. Skyfall. During a break, I show Alex a clip from The Trip to Spain during which over an entree of scallops Coogan and Brydon battle with their respective Roger Moore impersonations. He laughs at, ‘Come, come, Mr. Bond’ and reckons the next movie introduces Jane Bond.

Before 007 defeats the cyberterrorist in Scotland we hit our cots. Today’s gone well and there’s been lovely moments and also, I hope, fruitful investment.

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Mystery Pub: Art and Ale in The British

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At the pub’s posterior is a tiny beer garden with capacity for a dozen. Its wall is festooned by a black outline painting, intriguingly of the hotel itself. This seems redundant marketing. Surely, if you’re clasping a refreshment in a shady nook, you don’t need to look at a visual rendition of the pub, to entice you to swing by that very venue. You’re already sorta sold. While Claire’s buying our second and ultimate round, I peer at this meta-painting, zeroing in on the beer garden and try to find the artwork on the wall.

Tradition demands when in an Empire-themed North Adelaide boozer for Mystery Pub I’ve a Heineken. In 2021 I commenced this at the Kentish, Mystery Pub #9. I insist that Heineken is European VB, but without the sophistication, presence, and contextual glamour. Claire arks, ‘Why do you buy this?’ Thinking deeply about her question, I contemplate my life’s story, good and varied fortune, and not inconsiderable world travel before declaring, ‘I dunno.’

An older couple’s in the courtyard. Cautious and tentative with each other, Claire wonders if they’re on a date. Hang on, the man’s on his phone while she patiently waits, her face poised between a smile and a frown. There’s significant physical and, it would seem, interpersonal distance between them. We speculate again: date or comfortable couple? He’s finished texting and now they’re talking again and finally, she’s smiling.

In the corridor by the front bar hangs a framed print of the London Underground map. I love maps and this is the best. It’s even more evocative of the British capital than a Monopoly board. While the Friday cluster goes to and from, I drink in the details. The Tube stops are splendidly poetic and offer complete, expressive itineraries. St John’s Wood. Alight here for Harrods, Lords Cricket Ground, and Abbey Road Studios and its pedestrian crossing. And then there’s Waterloo. Hop off for a promenade along the Thames, ride on the London Eye or visit to the Dali Universe.

North Adelaide’s a superb suburb of opulent mansions and the front bar is today colonised by a boisterous, self-important consortium of suits. We squash past. An easy guess is they’re legal eagles whose long lunch is elongating. We note one of this throng untimely begripped by chardonnay. She’s making abundant but thus far utterly unsuccessful advances towards a colleague. His uninterest is apparent. Tonight, there’ll be tears and also likely Monday in the office.

Earlier, we visited a Light Square gallery where Claire met the artist and comedian Sam Kissajukian as she’s soon interpreting at his exhibition. Meanwhile, I wandered around, examining and reading the painting’s narratives. One mentioned liminality, which means, among other things, the state, place, or condition of transition. Later in the beer garden liminality applied to us as in our evening culinary evolution, we contemplated pub foods and then surrendered to a blissful bowl of wedges.

We spoke of their initial popularity, ensuing fall from grace, and their recent and happy reappearance in taverns just like The British. Despite this perpetual flux, the sour cream and chilli sauce work in humble tandem.

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On the Glenelg Surf Club, Vampire Weekend, and Roast Beef

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Surf Club

‘Just as we were amazed to look out at the sea on the Cinque Terre, people must come here and think the same. The view is beautiful,’ offered Claire.

‘I’m sure that’s true,’ I replied instantly, if a little ungenerously.

About 5.30pm on Friday, we’d somehow snaffled a table on the balcony at the Glenelg Surf Club. The waters of Gulf St. Vincent were flat and dazzling and postcardy. To our south the squat jetty swarmed with folks and kids, leaping into the drink, from the pylons. I hoped some had on their best swimming jeans.

Having established a theme, Claire pursued it with relaxed tenacity. ‘If there were tourists staying in the city, I reckon they’d really enjoy it in here. Don’t you think?’

I love a surf club, too. They’re proudly local and chances are your beer will be served by a young, often uncertain, clubbie getting up a few volunteer hours. The prices are decent, the grub’s often excellent and you know your coin’s doing communal good.

We then bought (unsuccessful) tickets in the meat raffle and this was also a petite joy.

To celebrate this tremendous fortune, we had a bag of chips (not my idea, I confess) and then discussed how our British friends are probably wise to call these crisps to differentiate them from their direct-from-the-deep-fryer brethren. It would save us the frequent indignity of this conversation:

                Shall we get some chips?

                Sure. Hot chips or cold chips?

                Cold.

                Why don’t we call them crisps in Australia?

                Yeah, like the Poms. Would make life easier.

                Dunno.

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Vampire Weekend

After five years, one of my favourite bands dropped (nobody releases music anymore) two new songs, ‘Capricorn’ and ‘Gen-X Cops.’ The former is wonderfully atmospheric and reminiscent of their acclaimed 2013 album Modern Vampires of the City with its introspective lyrics about the past and our fragile hopes. Musically, there’s a lovely piano solo, string accompaniment, and a fetching melody that echoes some of their finest moments on tracks such as ‘Step’ and my desert island certainty, ‘Hannah Hunt.’

Claire and I saw Vampire Weekend at Melbourne’s Forum Theatre as part of their Father of the Bride tour in January 2020. It was magnificent with 27 songs played across nearly three hours. About four songs in that night the stage lost power twice and we feared our night would be unhappily early, but the faceless electricians got the voltage happening and the show went on. On the third attempt, they got through the delightfully named, ‘Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa.’

For me their music is literate and fun and smart. It connects to Paul Simon’s Graceland in style and execution. When it’s out in April, just after Easter, I’ll be all over the new album, Only God Was Above Us.

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Roast Beef

Although it’s February we decided to have a Saturday roast. It’d been months since our last, probably in winter and so we enlisted the appropriately named Beefmaster barbeque and utilized the indirect method (does sound like an unsatisfactory form of contraception).

Is there a more comforting sound than that of a hunk of beef spitting and sizzling in the pan?

Food often lacks an accompanying musical score, so this is always a welcome domesticated commotion. I find the challenge is to just leave it alone and not lift the lid too frequently. I treat the meat like a kind of culinary Schrodinger’s Cat, wanting to peer at it constantly as if it’s slow art, thus lengthening maddeningly, the cooking time. Preparing a roast is best done as a duet with Claire being the gently guiding Dolly to my slightly dazed and doddery Kenny.

It was affirming ye olde fayre with the roasted cauliflower (is it really the poor cousin of broccoli; methinks not) and Belgium’s finest cabbage derivative, brussel sprouts, both emerging as unlikely stars and receiving a sitting/ standing ovation from us.

At 6.37pm on the patio attending to the soothing symphony coming from under the rangehood and nursing a sparkling ale (me) and gin (Claire) all was (briefly) right in our tiny beachy nook.

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Alex. sixteen.

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Dear Alex

Happy 16th birthday! This year is the sweet spot between childhood and adulthood. It’s like being stuck in limbo, but in a good way. I wanted to take a moment to share some thoughts, advice, and, of course, celebrate the wonderful long horse person you are.

Life at sixteen is like a canvas waiting to be painted with vibrant colors, and from what I’ve seen, your life could be an exquisite artwork. Your circle of friends, the rich and fun beachside experiences – these are the moments that will shape your memories and relationships for years to come. Cherish them for they are the building blocks of a life well-lived.

I’m mightily impressed by your growing appreciation for the arts, particularly music, drama, and film. George Harrison and Revolver hold a special place in your heart, and I’m glad you’ve inherited a taste for timeless classics. The complexities of Scorsese, the boldness of Tarantino, and the brilliance of Kubrick – these auteurs have influenced your cinematic preferences. And let’s not forget The Big Lebowski, a film that has finally found its way into your heart, adding a touch of humor to your cinematic palette. Mark it zero!

As you continue to improve as a reader and a writer, remember that these skills will be your not-so-secret weapons, especially in the worlds of film, theatre, and literature that you hold so dear. Keep nurturing your creative spirit and be bold in exploring new genres and authors.

Embarking on the next two years, remember that they won’t define your entire life, but do present wonderful opportunities to make exciting things happen. School will be as rewarding as you decide to make it, and your fondest hobby or subject could very well evolve into a fulfilling career. Take the time to investigate your passions and discover what truly brings you joy.

Financial independence is an important aspect of adulthood. So, aim to secure and maintain a job to not only learn about managing money but to also gain valuable insights into responsibility and accountability. There are skills to learn!

Our trip to Moana will be a bonding experience, and I look forward to this and similar escapes together and with Max too. It’s not just about the destination; it’s about the conversations and shared moments of discovery.

Never forget kindness. This is the value promoted by the Dalai Lama, and I reckon he’d know. In a world that can sometimes be challenging, kindness remains the unblinking beacon of light, guiding us eternally. Choose kindness for yourself and others.

Alex, you are growing into an amazing young man, and I am excited to see what lies ahead for you. Happy birthday! May this year bring you joy, growth, and unforgettable experiences.

PS- remember to place all cans and bottles in the recycling box. I don’t need to tell you why!

Love, Dad

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Photos both exquisite and ridiculous

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This cassette came my way when I was twelve. A Christmas gift from Mum and Dad. It made a deep impact upon me, and I’d wanted it for ages. Like a head-banded DK Lillee bowling, or Rick Davies playing footy for Sturt in the ’76 grand final, the pure and impressionable skill with which the gawky blokes of LRB harmonised made me quite starstruck. I imagine even then I was monstrously tone-deaf.

On my little tape player, I had this on repeat and at volume. Hearing it now on vinyl it rushes me back to 1978. Of course, I had no idea what the songs were about other than vague adult notions of love. As Claire noted, the vocal highlight is the dense opening line to ‘Reminiscing’ with their internal rhyme of ‘late’ and ‘gate’ and the exciting urgency. We’ve eighteen syllables following a trochaic (stressed-unstressed) rhythm-

Friday night it was late I was walking you home we got down to the gate
And I was dreaming of the night
Would it turn out right?

I’ve much gratitude for this gift from my parents and the effortlessly transportive nature of the music. Yes, it’s probably a bit soulless and as smooth as cat poo but it’s forever connected to my childhood.

Among the torrent of music that comes from Alex’s room is jazz and noise rock and the Beatles. I was surprised and secretly thrilled when I recently heard the slick tones of LRB and their deathless harmonies.

I took this during the official ceremony prior to the recent Test at Adelaide Oval. It’s Claire about to perform as the Auslan interpreter for Cricket Australia. I love these moments when the private and the public collide although I generally keep my thoughts in my head.

I was proud and thrilled and would like to have prodded the bucket-hatted bloke next to me in the Members’ and said, “How good is this? She’s very talented, oh, and by the way, I’m her husband.’ What a unique skillset. Other than for a post-match ‘kick and catch’ I’ve not trod on this hallowed turf so well done, Claire!

Utterly impractical and ridiculous. The car or the owner? Good question. I bought it in early 1991. Sadly, the odometer stopped working when it’d done 297,000-something and shortly after I sold it. I imagine, it then went, in an automotive sense, to God. I expect most of these are now in wrecking yards or serving as artificial reefs, home to snapper and sharks.

Commencing a long trip to or from Kimba, I’d often slide in Nevermind by Nirvana and spin the volume knob hard right. It was fun to pilot. I loved the sunroof, but it was noisy on the highway.

Still, it amused me and bemused my friends. I’ve now recovered although I’ll never surrender and own a station wagon, not even a Wagon Queen Family Truckster like the Griswolds on Vacation.

8

Sunday Morning in Adelaide’s Heart

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Stepping through the hotel lobby onto Hindley Street, I then creak into a trot. The stained footpath looks like a tangle of Rorschach inkblot tests. It’s Sunday morning.

Adelaide’s most notorious street is freshly circumspect after another torrid evening and moving east, I pass a café of breakfasters demolishing their eggs and bacon, their arms pumping up and down like fiddlers’ elbows. At King William Street the pedestrian lights blink to green so over I shuffle.

Until now, I’ve never run through Rundle Mall, and its reddish-brown pavers. It’s wet this morning so I’m cautious and wish to avoid splaying myself outside of Lush for the satisfaction of shoppers seeking locally-sourced, preservative-free stinky stuff.

Reaching Gawler Place, Nova FM is promoting this week’s tennis at Memorial Drive. A good-natured queue snakes across my path, Dads and kids spinning the chocolate wheel for tickets or an icy cold can of coke, assuming this remains the base metric for radio station giveaways.

Glancing south I see the Mall’s newest resident: a pigeon. Or rather a two-metre reflective metal sculpture of one. It’s curiously compelling and I could be in The Land of The Giants. The sculptor says, ‘I see pigeons as proud flaneurs (loafers), promenading through our leisure and retail precincts. They are the quiet witnesses of our day-to-day activities in the city, our observers from day through to night.’

I then note a store called Glue. That’s intriguing but why not call it Clag? That’s a word which is always funny, especially when you use it to secretly stick shut the pages of your Grade 3 friend’s exercise book, or their copy of Let’s Make English Live Die.

The Malls Balls appear in their enigmatic majesty. Fashioned by Bert Flugleman, they’re the nation’s most iconic pair of balls. I’ll leave it to you to insert a joke of your choosing.  

With another green light I scamper over Pulteney Street to Rundle Street before passing the distinctive green exterior of Adelaide’s finest pub, the Exeter Hotel. Inside it’s always the 90’s and our nation’s best wine writer, Philip White, is by the bar. Straining my ears, I’m disillusioned to not catch gliding up from the beer garden some ghostly wafts of Nirvana.

Taking coffee on the footpath are a clot of Sunday suits while over the road a rotund woman of Caribbean appearance is urging us all to, ‘Repent, repent.’ She’s sure our timeframe is only forty days. ‘Repent, repent’ she repeats. I best get on with it.

Over East Terrace sits the Garden of Unearthly Delights, the focus of the Fringe. Now it’s lush-green and empty. Next month it’ll be buzzing, and any surviving grass will be brown. To my right is Rymil Park, annual host of Harvest Rock. Again, it’s morning mass still. How these micro-cities appear and disappear! Despite their fleetingness, they shape our city in enduring ways.

I turn left by the brewery apartments and am halfway through my run. It’s both astonished discovery and a comforting repetition. The O-Bahn tunnel runs beneath me. Last week with Claire I first rocketed the twelve kilometres to Tea Tree Plaza on its clever, Germanic bus.

Drizzle smears the sky as the National Wine Centre swims into view. It appears as a Noah’s Arc for plonk. When those antediluvian rains came what if the 600-year-old skipper had to usher onto his boat two bottles of every wine varietal? Sorry, Grange, back down the ramp for you as we’ve already got some shiraz.

We know well our CBD, but there is something magical about staying in the city that sprinkles enchantment over the recognisable buildings and boulevards. I’m now on North Terrace by the Botanic Hotel. After 4th year English between 4 and 8 on Mondays my old friend JB and I would drive to the Bot while I would soothingly play her Bob Dylan cassettes. Sorry, JB.

I peer into Ayers House trying to recall how many wedding receptions I’ve been to there. I can’t and then above me stretches Adelaide’s tallest building, the Frome Central Tower One. Not tall by global measures but the skyscraper’s emblematic of Adelaide’s revitalised confidence. Claire and I went up there recently and gazed out over the eastern suburbs, spotting landmarks. Ah, there’s Norwood Oval!

I pass 2KW which is a roof-top bar. Are these elevated boozers the new Irish pub? Will we tire of these too? I often try to look at our city as might an overseas tourist. What would I think?

A compact, fetching metropolis, without the glamour of Sydney harbour or geographic clout of Brisbane’s river, Adelaide’s quiet beauty and ease of lifestyle would progressively reveal themselves. I’d be impressed by North Terrace’s elegant institutions and the Torrens and Adelaide Oval precinct. If I wandered in on for a beer, I’d love the Exeter and its eccentricity.

I ease up Bank Street and, in the hotel, click open the door to our twelfth-floor room.

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Mystery Pub: bung fritz, beanbags and Botched

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Mystery Pub was on Sunday afternoon at the Marion Hotel, but it’s mostly been at the working week’s end. There are cultural and atmospheric contrasts between the timeslots with Friday about dusty boots and yelling men in orange set among menacing urgency.

However, Sunday’s often a day for family functions in the pub and we chat with a former colleague attending his niece’s farewell. She’s eighteen and going to Sydney to study dance.

Prior to this monthly excursion Claire and I made our annual investigation of the Brighton Sculptures. Along the esplanade is a row of wrought and welded stuff, made from glass, timber, and metals. We’re gently prodded by the creations, and each comes with a description penned by the artist. One read:

The artwork embodies an environmental consciousness, highlighting the interplay between human and more-than-human temporalities within the material world

I am concerned that this asks too much of corrugated iron.

Prior to this we visited the Glenelg Air-Raid shelter. As with many of these in Adelaide it’s situated by an oval. We learned that during WW2 the ovals were a mustering point. If required people would then have been bussed out of the city and on such dark trips were permitted only one type of sandwich: cheese or egg. It was instructively sombre.

Prior to that I watched San Francisco beat Green Bay in the NFL Divisional Playoffs. While I’m a Denver Broncos supporter I’ve affection for the 49ers as they were great when I was a kid. I recall the stentorian commentator Pat Summerall and his iconic, ‘Montana……Rice……touchdown.’

Prior to this I ran six kilometres to the Adelaide Sailing club and back. It’s hosting the World Regatta Championship and I was disappointed to not spot bobbing on the briny the Caddyshack tub, Flying Wasp, or the yacht, Unsinkable 2.

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Saturday evening was balmy, so we plonked our beanbags on the back lawn for The Ringer podcast on the terrific film, The Big Chill. Sprawling over 120 minutes it included astute dialogue on the opening scenes of Alex’s funeral and wake. This sequence, soundtracked by the Rolling Stones’ classic, ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’ is my favourite song use in a movie.

Earlier we slipped into the cinema for The Holdovers, and I liked the protagonist’s line, ‘life’s like a hen-house ladder: shitty and short.’

Earlier still, one of the year’s smallgoods highlights was the annual running of the (time-honoured) Bung Fritz Cup at Gawler in the uproarious timeslot of 1.02pm. The numbers were: 1, 6, 2. But you probably knew this.

Yet even earlier around the Patawalonga I undertook my weekly parkrun (#51) and thought I did well although the official clock indicated a muddling amble.

*

The Marion Hotel’s heart is The Garden. It features a large tree, and we do like a beer garden built around a tree. There are a few pubs which claim this although I was dismayed that the Broady’s beloved frangipani tree was felled recently due to ill-health (the tree, not the publican). These charming surrounds reminded me of Australian Crawl’s, ‘Beautiful People’ with its lyric, ‘the garden’s full of furniture, the house is full of plants.’

On a wall were two bedsheet-sized TV screens and surprisingly both were dark. In a pub when was the last time you saw this? However, undistinguished music was bleating rowdily, and I finally guessed it was Keith Urban’s Greatest Hit, on repeat.

In a Mystery Pub first, we had the dinner in The Garden with a veggie patch bowl for Claire and a beef schnitzel for me. Our flashing buzzer nagged us to collect our meals immediately and slightly aggrieved, I wondered if it was akin to self-checkout at a supermarket. Frowning, I vowed to next time put through Lady Finger bananas as loose carrots.

Furthermore, will future bartenders only be apparitions? Will our pub experience devolve into humming dispensers squirting one’s beverage like a dystopian bovine teat? Swipe your details and stick a cup under an unappetising nozzle?

Is this already a thing in Japanese train stations?

After a weekend of cultural immersion, we then raced home for Botched.

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Sausage Roll Review: Tanunda Bakery and Café – Howzat

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It’s the week of the Adelaide Test and a vital plank in my psychological preparation is a drive up to the Barossa to see Mum and Dad.

Late morning, I steer along Gomersal Road which seems pot-hole free. Not before time. I’m listening to Classic FM as lots of New Year resolution lists recommend this as a calming strategy. Rachmaninov does seem more soothing than Rammstein.

Arriving at my parents’ home we chat about the following: cricket, Dad’s bowls, my park running, cricket, recent holidays, my wife Claire’s work, immediate family, our 101-year-old neighbour, cricket, extended family, and the weather including how the cool summer has meant Claire and I have done limited beach swimming.

At long last, we get to the topic of cricket.

Prior to this I luncheoned at the Tanunda Bakery and Café as part of my endless investigation into our state’s sausage roll situation. I planned to write contemporary sausage roll situation but it’s difficult to eat historical (without frozen foodstuffs from decades past) and future samples.

Inside the busy bakery someone asked cautiously if there was a queue. Another replied rather unaccommodatingly that there wasn’t, and furthermore it was entirely the responsibility of each customer to establish their spot in the order and guarantee its integrity. This seemed especially burdensome for a Monday, so I decided instead to join the apparent and flawless queue adjacent to the counter. Like many queues over the previous millennium, it worked rather well.

There were no unpleasant incidents during those 87 seconds I waited to make my purchase.

I ventured outside to the shady patio. It was inviting with tables and chairs, and being the Barossa, a wooden wine barrel. For my continued safety and mystical comfort, I chose to eat by the wine barrel.

Just like most of the Tanunda footballers I encountered during my youth as a Kapunda Bomber, my sausage roll was compact and appeared competent.

A second glance was disappointing for the baked good looked a little diminished although I’m prepared to concede this might be a function of the contemporary consumer experience in which we expect everything to be excessively large including our cars, our beverages and of course, our schnitzels.

My first bite. Innocuous. Waiting for the delicious arrival of delicate spice and accompanying waft of pepper. It didn’t happen or perhaps is hugely delayed, giving me a minor zing tomorrow. The pastry was also only adequate.

Now we all know well that a sausage roll can be a cylindrical joy, a triumphant midday flourish. Either way the model in front of me, in the heart of the Barossa, was dissatisfactory.

Like Ted Mulry, I then jumped in my car and drove to Mum and Dad’s. There was cricket to chat about.

My sausage roll was purposeful rather than flavoursome. Admittedly, I had significant expectations, but these were mostly not met.

Three cricket bats out of five.