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Seven Notes from a Three-Point Glenelg Win

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Lachie Hosie must now be in the Magarey Medal conversation. Spending some time at centre bounces ball ups and roaming through the midfield, his panther-like (sorry, he’s more a panther than a tiger in his movements) attack and ball carry should receive votes. On Sunday he brought the footy inside the fifty on seven occasions. Up forward as our most damaging scoring weapon or pouncing in the midfield, he’ll again be central to Glenelg’s September fortunes.

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The Crows SANFL side had seventeen AFL-listed players on deck. Their market value must’ve been north of seven million. Many of those would attract a salary beyond the entire Glenelg salary cap which is $350,000 for the league team. This staggering disparity is widely acknowledged but my sense of social justice is reinforced when we beat our cashed-up opponents. I like that for all the money and massive industry that is the AFL, we can and still do win against them. Football doesn’t always bow to money or science. Sometimes it’s still an art.

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The Rolling Stones just released a new album called Foreign Tongues and while it’s no Exile on Main Street, it’s really good. Just like Mick Jagger (who inspired Cornsey’s facial beauty secrets), Keef Richards, and Ronnie Wood, our experienced veterans like Luke Partington, Matty Allen, and Liam McBean can still knock out a decent tune. They, too, have now built an impressive back catalogue. 2026 could be on our greatest hits along with 2019, 2023, and 2024.

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At first glance the free-kick count (24–10) looked wildly in our favour. But I’d argue we had a few that weren’t paid too. The umpiring was reasonable across the match and one of the few times I’ve agreed with BT was when he once asked, ‘Why would you expect the free kick count to be even?’ It’s a good point.

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Having suffered a voluntary and involuntary backline exodus since mid-2025, we’ve found some worthy types. Jonty Scharenberg continues to lead through deed and word while SOW (Son of Weed) Jake Weidemann is a welcome and imposing addition who has his father’s Viking qualities. That we’ve had a dozen or so debutants this season feels like smart list management rather than panic. Looking further afield on the magnet board, while both mostly play forward, Remi Brown and Isaac Hyatt are strong examples of this sunny future. Will we keep them?

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The spectre of the AFL draft looms constantly and of course we wish all our aspirants well. With the Tassie side (probably) coming soon they’ll need stocks. I wonder how many of our young players will end up in Hobart? A few of the Crows we saw yesterday might be one day down by the Derwent too. Some of those Adelaide footballers will suffer the fate of being too good for SANFL and not good enough for the AFL. It’s footballing purgatory. Brett Chalmers occupied that territory for years. He can console himself, though, with the knowledge he sired a handy Olympic swimmer.

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I’m always interested in how people watch footy. Some occupy the same grandstand seat for decades. I prefer to wander. First stanza in the Edward Rix Stand, then across to the Snout’s Bar pocket. A hotdog with mustard somewhere across the game. Starting the second half on the terrace south of the bistro before drifting to the north-eastern pocket, the winter sun spilling over our shoulders like it did yesterday as in those desperate last moments, when we repelled and spoilt and cleared the Sherrin.

There wasn’t another place I’d rather have been when the final siren sounded with Glenelg three points in front.

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The Best Beer I Ever Had #27: Palermo, 4.27pm

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We’d had a decent day in Palermo.

Strolling the length of Via Vittorio Emanuele, we then descended into the catacombs. These burial tombs were initially for religious folk but then became a status symbol so others were placed in there, courtesy of their relieved relatives. Many were mummified. Most look unimpressed. Claire and I did not book a space each.  

Later, we visited Palazzo Abatellis, an art gallery housing the Virgin Annunciate, an Early Renaissance masterpiece. It’s yet another fecking religious painting. Great but sometimes I yearn for a godless soup can.

After such a day, especially in Europe, especially in their spring, especially upon a holidaying Tuesday, and especially anytime south of about 4.27pm, I am ready, as they say, to murder a beer.

I love Palermo’s Quattro Canti. Four extravagant Baroque facades frame an octagonal intersection where Via Maqueda meets Via Vittorio Emanuele. It’s pedestrianised with cruel little cobblestones designed to make you want to amputate your own feet later that very evening.

Locating a bar, I collapsed into a stool (tall chair, not a poo) on the street. ‘What will you have?’ I asked Claire. Browsing the menu she replied, ‘I reckon an espresso martini.’

The Italian lager, Birra Moretti, was my choice. Six hundred and sixty magnificent millilitres. It arrived in a jubilant, brown bottle. Beside it sat a heavy tumbler. It was two euros. The waiter motioned to me, seeking permission to pour my beer into the glass.

When outside of Australia, my vowels involuntarily lengthen and become nasal like I’m from Far North Queensland. It bemuses Claire. Instead of thanking him with a briskly confident, ‘Prego,’ I drawled a bogan-ish, ‘Pray- go’ as if Pauline were ventriloquist to my somehow stutterless puppet.

I was extravagantly pleased with myself even as the zealous waiter sloshed it in, nodded and vanished, leaving me to stare at a glass of foaming ice-cream for agonising minutes.

Zipping and strolling by our table, an endless human tide flowed up and down the street. Claire and I became an island in the stream. The air about us hummed warmly with bubbling chat. We’d a day remaining in Palermo before flying to Rome and home, so this was an early celebration and acknowledgement of the utterly engaging, exciting island that is Sicily.

I attacked my Birra Moretti like a man who’d just stumbled in from the months wandering a desert. It was delicious and my screaming feet were silenced instantly. After a day among the dead and the divine, and now just alone with my dearest in one of Europe’s great squares, it was a perfect coda.

It was the best beer I ever had.

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Mystery Pub at the Bartley: Meat, Grog, Grog, Meat

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We wind our way between the artificial lake and the darkening beach, round prosperous but bland streets. There are plenty of car park spots and our RAV4 has an entire puddly bay to itself. Given the winter solstice, sunset’s early.

Pushing through the door is always thrilling. Part pub, part party, part holiday accommodation. Claire and I glide through the venue like Henry and Karen navigating the Copacabana in Goodfellas (at least in my mind). Maybe the Bartley of West Lakes is cavernous and utilitarian rather than a glitzy gangster nightspot.

Our search takes us through the sports bar, gaming, and yet another bar, before finally locating the lounge and its roaring fire. That’s better. Coats off, we claim a Chesterfield couch. We chat about the joys of wood fires.

Mine host is a bear who, despite the wintry chill, isn’t hibernating. He’s sauntering about in shorts, a blobby tattoo smeared across his right calf. He gently tells us we can’t stay by the fire — there’s a reserved sign. With meaty mitts, he shovels some logs into the wood burner, beams, and wobbles off.

SpongeBob is on one TV for the septuagenarians while another shows the VFL from Carrara. The Box Head Hill Hawks dim the Suns in front of a crowd seemingly smaller and more indifferent than the one here at the Bartley. Nobody’s interested in either offering.

Mine host grabs the mic and begins the raffle. ‘Green ticket. Number 56.’ The crowd murmurs and an elderly bloke shuffles up to claim his plate of chops. ‘Ah, it’s you Dave. Well done. Hope you like your meat tray.’

Every fifteen minutes there’s a juicy offering: meat, grog, grog, meat. Hugging their tickets like rosary beads, the punters concentrate as if it’s World Championship Bingo.

Claire has an espresso martini. It features Sheep Dog Jelly whiskey, vodka, and Kahlua. Mine host calls it an SDJ. SDJ sounds like a forgotten mid-century politician or a minor infectious disorder. I get a Pale Ale which, despite its ubiquity, can still stun with its fruity poise.

Beside us sits a table of women — grey of hair, stooped, nattering away, happy as pups. Right next to them is a matching table of men. Claire asks, ‘Do you reckon they’re all married to each other?’ I look over at the gender-segregated throngs. ‘There’s six at each, so you might be right.’ It looks routine and relaxed, and I wonder if this is such a terrible thing. Others could view it as melancholic surrender.

The Bartley and its happy hour raffle give their week a collective focal point.

As is our routine, we order hot chips. Mine host brings them over. The gravy is watery — haunted only by the ghost of flavour. Paul Kelly definitely didn’t make this batch. It’s thin and sorrowful.

Leaving, we pass the pool table where a young couple is gallantly attempting a night out with their toddlers. Nappy bag, shrill demands, pram ready to flee. We accelerate past them, and my eye catches a poster advertising a Paint ‘n’ Sip night coming up next month at the venue.

I’ll stick to Sip.

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Birthdays, Gatsby, Ripper 76

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Friends and family, thank you for being here to help celebrate the birthdays of Claire and me. It means a lot — even if, in the spirit of transparency, we should confess that everyone in our top twenty friends declined their invitations. So, congratulations: you were next on the list, and you’ve done very well to be here.

Now, milestones demand reflection. And after deep contemplation — I’ve realised we’ve all learnt something important today. Yes, we have. And what have we learnt?

Along with Scott Fitzgerald’s Jazz Age classic, The Great Gatsby, and Picasso’s Spanish Civil War protest in Guernica, the compilation album Ripper 76 is among the 20th century’s most significant and enduring cultural works.

It opens with Howzat by Sherbet — which always takes Claire and me back to being ten — then glides into Billy Thorpe’s It’s Almost Summer. Side 2 kicks off with Love Really Hurts Without You, a song that highlights, alarmingly, Billy Ocean’s problematic bedroom technique.

And then comes the finest poetry ever committed to vinyl: Ah, breaker one nine, this here’s the Rubber Duck/ You got a copy on me, Pig Pen, c’mon?’ Yes — Convoy, by the shadowy truckin’ sorcerer CW McCall.

And finally, the emotional crescendo: 10cc’s I’m Not in Love. Big boys don’t cry, big boys don’t cry — although Claire and I might get on the blub before sunset if Coopers Sparkling and espresso martinis make a brash, unsupervised appearance.

But today isn’t about music. It’s about indulgences — the good ones. Cheese, wine, and conversations about why John Klug not playing more games for the Crows is late capitalism’s most profound tragedy. Those who don’t know who John Klug is are, frankly, proving my point. Shame on you.

While they can’t be here, Claire is deeply appreciative of the love and support shown by Francie and HP. And thanks to Glenelg’s finest takeaway‑pasta employees, Alex and Max, for being here too. Boys, as always, I’m proud to be your dad. Your impossibly attractive, witty, and ridiculously talented dad.

And now, the most important thank you. To my beautiful wife, Claire. Even after five years of marriage, having permission to utter those words still astonishes me. It fills me with gratitude and wonder. You are the best part of every single day. I love you.

So, let’s raise a glass, put on Ego Is Not a Dirty Word by Skyhooks, and enjoy their charmingly antiquated, surprisingly camp tales of 1970s Melbourne suburbia.

Thanks for coming.

Video – Google Photos

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A Waterfall of Chat

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As the wintry afternoon bends across the lawn, we’re on old pavers, each holding a glass of 2024 Grenache. It’s a long-weekend Sunday and Claire and I are at Samuel’s Gorge winery in McLaren Vale.

The world often tends towards complexity and so it’s a surprise to instead find delightfully simple things. Here, today, there’s no bombardment. No pizza or jazz quartets or cheese boards. I like these but also enjoy the twin pleasures of wine and conversation. Just as we did on winery visits last century.

There’re no sliders or other foolishly named foodstuffs.

Standing by a stone wall, we’re staring out at the bushy gorge below us — only half an hour from home. We wonder what the Sicilians, whose island we blissfully visited, would make of this — how a short drive tumbles from rural vineyard to sparkling seas. We live well here, clinging to the edge of the continent by the Great Southern Ocean.

The girl sporting a beret appears with a bottle. She’s attentive but unobtrusive and this is a skill I admire. ‘Are you up to the Tempranillo?’ All the winery staff are friendly yet efficient, brisk. Nodding, we thank her. Splash. In it goes. Her beret bounces off towards the veranda.

We’re both mindful of these blessings. I especially love the intimacy of the two of us being alone among a boisterous, indifferent throng. Nobody can hear our secretive, tumbling waterfall of chat. Everybody ignores us, cheerfully.

Claire mentions Bridge over Troubled Water by Simon and Garfunkel. From where do these topics come? Not her favourite song. I say, ‘Why do you loathe it?’ She replies that ‘It’s depressing. They’re so whiny. I think we sang it in church.’ I remember iconic Kapunda deli owner Reg Rawady’s baritone booming from the back pews. His big unmistakeable voice erupting from his jockey torso.

‘Don’t you think it’s uplifting?’ I ask. ‘I like the metaphor and hope we can be each other’s bridge over troubled water.’ The sun’s draping us in its rays. The soft blue of the sky encourages delight. Claire says, ‘Okay, this makes more sense.’ We’ve adjusted our views of Bridge over Troubled Water. We’ve moved towards each other a little closer, the way we do when we see something anew. I like when this happens in our marriage.

We skip to Love is a Bridge by the Little River Band. Now this, I say, is an uplifting tune. We laugh at the bridge repetition. Whatever they were, LRB did offer soaring harmonies. Nobody heard them in church. I don’t mention Under the Bridge by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. For a funk band it’s a hideously dismal dirge.

An eager winery lieutenant appears again. Our tasting concludes with the 2024 Graciano. Purple gathers in our glasses. Across a warm-hearted hour, we’ve eased gently through a vinous succession. Uncorked some leisurely joy. Before summer arrives, we vow to return to Samuel’s Gorge.

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Uncle Des

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It’s true that cousins are our first friends — especially in the country — and this was my happy experience growing up in Kapunda. I’m Michael Randall. As a kid, I was called Mick, Mickey, and sometimes Aunty Claire called me Mickle. I’m proud to say that Des was my uncle.

I recall being eight and playing at Dutton Park with my cousins — Paul, now known as Boogly — and Chris, who defied medical science by subsisting only on vegemite sandwiches. We made cubby houses, poked sticks into trapdoor spider holes, and kicked the footy, pretending to be Paul Bagshaw, Rick Davies, and Kenny Whelan.

Late on afternoons like this, the most ear-piercing and astonishing whistle would ring out. It sailed over the caravan park, through the gumtrees, and down to the oval. I’m sure it penetrated the trotting track and dusty golf course too. It was even louder and more startling than Nuri oval’s air raid siren. Funny, really — the Barossa Valley Germans setting off an air‑raid siren.

Where did this whistle originate? It was 5pm and, despite being half a mile away, we distinctly heard Uncle Des whistling us home for dinner. This was parenting. Kapunda, 1975. So, we instantly forgot the trapdoor spiders and scampered up to Clare Road for chops and three veg. On Skippy plates. Chris, the records show, opted for a vegemite sandwich.

The most memorable car of my childhood was Uncle Des’s Holden Brougham. It was elegant and exotic. It was a striking sedan, and everybody loved it. It was a 1970 V8. Nobody else I knew then had one and nobody has since. Uncle Des parked it under the carport. It was his pride and joy.

One Christmas, Carolyn, Paul, and I got new bikes. Dragsters. These were magnificent. Off we went — trainer wheels on, wobbling about the back yard and dirt road.

Uncle Des said, ‘Now, be careful around the car with those bikes. I don’t want any scratches on it.’

Ouff. Watch out!

Soon after, wheeling my dragster past that Brougham I thought, ‘What if I become possessed by a demon and deliberately run my bike into a fender?’ Eight-year-old me shivered. Fifty-nine-year-old me still shivers. I could’ve spared myself much adult grief if I’d driven my actual cars with as much care as when I pushed past that Brougham on my blue Malvern Star with the sissy bar.

Across the decades, seeing Uncle Des at the footy club or in Puffa’s he’d greet me with a smile and a “How are you, pal?’ He was always interested in us. He often called me ‘pal.’ These are memories I deeply cherish.

He was a hugely positive influence, and I’m deeply grateful for that. He was funny and kind but also firm as required — especially around his car. He helped make my childhood joyful and ensured that Kapunda will always be home.

To the entire O’Keefe family, you are especially in my thoughts today. I wish you strength.

Cousins really are our first friends. And in families like ours, uncles and aunties become our second parents. Uncle Des — larger‑than‑life, charismatic, and treasured — was exactly that.

Thanks for listening and thank you for letting me share these memories.

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Sicily: Baroque but Physiologically Perilous

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Ape taxis are distinctive fun. They’re a scooter with a tray and cabin. In Italian, Ape means bee and not primate and is pronounced AH-peh. A nod to their industriousness, it’s a companion vehicle to the Vespa which indicates wasp. Designed and manufactured after the second world war, they helped Italy rebuild and are suited to the narrow, twisting lanes of the cities. How cool is this? The mere sight of one wobbling past is instantly cheering.

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Pedestrian streets return cities to their citizens. In Palermo and Catania, they’ve wrestled control back from vehicles. This is best seen at Palermo’s Quattro Canti. A Baroque square, it hosts buskers, weddings, gawping tourists, and probably thieves. Strolling down cobblestoned Via Vittorio Emanuele towards the harbour we pass The Navy, a darkly tempting bar.

Cobblestones — those evocative European symbols — are delightful to contemplate and photograph. However, they are horrifically medieval upon which to walk any distance. They’re romantic but physiologically perilous.

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The highlight of our Sicilian trip was Saturday. Venturing into the Mercato Ballarò, a famed food market, the noise is physical. Shouting and selling, music and meat sizzling on open grills — imagine tending these in a Mediterranean summer! The slender laneways heave with traffic and sensory assaults. Claire and I squeeze through together, gawking at the stalls groaning with non-refrigerated octopi and giant tuna and arancini. Orange juice — squeezed as you stood there — cost less than the 4 euro we were almost slugged in Catania for a tiny cup.

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Unbeknownst until too late, right next door was the Tatum Art Jazz Club & Ristorante. Opening on weekend evenings, we could’ve swung by for a Talented Mr. Ripley hour — minus the messy murder. Instead, 9pm on Saturday was Eurovision o’clock on the TV. Cue: much wailing and moaning and overwrought vocals plus cartoonish imagery and bombastic music. It was largely irony-free. Representing the Antipodes was our the Australian popster, Delta Goodrem. But what fun to see it as it happened — on the continent itself.

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With abundant love, Claire always secures atmospheric accommodation. In the Historical Centre of Palermo, we had a seventh-floor balcony from which we looked out at the Church of San Giuseppe dei Padri Teatini and its yellow and green dome. Our rooftop colleagues were wheeling and squawking gulls.

Giggling, Claire said, ‘They’re laughing at some very funny jokes.’ I think they were. What joy to sit on that narrow ledge with a Birra Moretti and a limoncello and plates of pasta with pistachio pesto (PPP in certain elite circles).

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The Sicilian capital is now among my favourites. Its insistent energy, compelling history, and painterly cityscape demand this. However, it’s also home to what we named the Sad Fountains of Palermo. Near us is one called the Fontana Pretoria or Fountain of Shame — think marble nudes on a ghostly building site — but the grimmest example is in the otherwise delightful Piazza Marina. This fountain was, I think, a dribbling garden hose and a horse — lame, bemused, and in a dying bush.

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Often, passing in a train or on foot we’d spy aged men leaning forward on a balcony. They’d be peering out wistfully if not glumly, neither smiling nor frowning. The lines between private and public lives are blurred here. Are they seeking company or fleeing it?

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Sicilian parks are grass-less but loved. This is the opposite of some London parks which are beautiful if entirely ornamental in that gruff signs forbid any human use. In transit to the Cattedrale di Palermo we bisected the Villa Bonanno. It’s unkempt with weeds, parched dirt, and irregular litter. However, it’s well-patronized and bustling with people sauntering, talking with spectacular animation, and eating gelato. Often, all three at once.

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Scampering through a golden twilight square on Sunday evening, we found a crowd bunching outside a bar. One loose circle chattered and drank with fearsome energy. And around what were they gathered? Yes, that’s right! A couple of green wheelie bins! Some were resting their beers on the plastic lids while they yelled joyfully at each other. This is why I love Sicily.  

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Three Candles in Santorini

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The Holy Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist is in Fira on Santorini. It’s a still, bewitching hour on a Thursday. Our final night on this striking island before we fly to Sicily. We’ve stolen up and across along the bumpy, twisting alleys from our apartment to this church. Sunset imminent.

It’s been decades since I regularly visited St Roses in Kapunda. We’re not going to mass. Claire leads me in. We’re just going to quietly sit and think.

Claire gathers and lights three candles. They glow with warmth and with faith. A candle for her dad, one for her mum, one for her sister Fran. They offer much beyond light.

Despite my Catholic childhood, at first I feel like an intruder. Church was only for set times, otherwise the door’s shut. Claire leans over and whispers, ‘In Turkey I was told that Muslims have no ceremony or mass when in a mosque. They simply pray.’ In the darkening pews, I nod. She continues. ‘There’s no assistance from a priest or religious person. It’s a singular, private time.’ Claire’s always teaching me things like this.

Is that what we’re doing now? Using this church for reflection, for gratitude, for remembrance. If churches can be for spirituality and not formal religion, then I think so. I’ve not sat in a church like this before, and it’s peaceful. I wonder if I could cultivate a new, informal relationship with the Catholic church. This might be the gift Greece gives me.

We stroll around to the Three Bells of Fira. We peer down on the Mediterranean, way below on the bluish, deepening Caldera. The cloudy skies mean there’s few people here on what feels like the brink of the world. On clear summer evenings in a month or two, it’ll be heaving like a music festival. Again, we speak little. There is no need.

Up and down laneways on the cliffside, we then arrive at Volkan on the Rocks. The resort has an open-air theatre, and the audience is at their tables with headphones on. Six nights a week it screens the Abba-inspired film Mamma Mia. We look down at them. In this location that’s neither day nor night, but both land and sea, it could be diverting. We walk on.

A moored cruise ship hovers below, a colossal modern wonder, all steel and sleek lines. From it dance music erupts up and into the Greek heavens. We imagine those on the decks, clutching drinks, milling about. Then, a smaller wooden vessel, a ketch, glides into view, pop melodies also bellowing up from the silent sea. It slides beneath us to the cliff and disappears into the velvety night.

Dusk approaches. In amongst the endless, squealing wheels of travel, the stillness of our church visit now feels as an instructive lingering, a wonder of rapt silence.

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Etna parkrun: Laps on the Lava (No Fire in the Sky)

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The mountain dwarfs Catania, a city of a million. Snow-capped and pyramidal, Etna looms moodily, shifting endlessly from shrouded and mysterious to clear and triumphant. We’re winding our way to it.

On the Uber ride up from our apartment, the driver, Mr Orazio, turns up Spotify. His car is a suitably Sicilian shade of black. He loves Queen, Pet Shop Boys, and Sowing the Seeds of Love by Tears for Fears — a glorious 1980s song I’d forgotten, all late-Beatles melody and borrowing the trumpet line from Penny Lane.

Decanted near a forest by Mr Orazio, we’re rescued by a pair of parkrun locals.

The pre-run briefing is punctuated by one-liners from local senior men. A dog is introduced and becomes comic material too. Most laugh. I do, too, although the jokes are in rousing, excitable Italian which is beyond me. I suspect this is true for many as we’re from Dublin, Poland, and Lincolnshire. Oh, and Austria — Australia.

The ceremony concludes with the Run Director holding up his phone and pushing play on a robotic but impeccably Oxford English translation: ‘You are warned to take care. The path can be dangerous.’ With ample reason, as we were about to discover.

Four laps on Mount Etna, Europe’s largest active volcano. The course twists through pine forest over black volcanic soil and scattered lava rocks, with tree roots and rough terrain. Camp firepits dot the forest floor. Broken glass prickles around these. Watch out!

The Ionian Sea, cobalt and shimmering, lies quiet and to the east. Below, Catania is still awakening on its smoggy coastal plain. It’s too early, I imagine, for our neighbourhood cats to have begun meowing to each other in their feline chorus.

Nearby, roaring engines from the Italian South Mountain Speed Championship provide an appropriately seismic soundtrack. Whilst the throaty crackle of automotive speed surrounds us, nobody here seems overly concerned with swiftness.

Claire decides to walk a lap. Generously, she takes photos and videos. We intersect twice and each time she chirps marital encouragement through the trees like, ‘Ole, ole!’ and ‘Go, you!’

There is welcome shade although this provides me with limited athletic assistance. I stumble my way along the forest trail, twisting and climbing before descending into a grassy field. The motorsport enthusiasts have helpfully backed their trailers onto our already narrow path. Meanwhile, Fiat fug smothers the course.

Crossing the finish line for the fourth and final time, volunteers wave and applaud with affectionate energy. I stagger to my water bottle. I’m cooked. At least, Etna hasn’t erupted, hurling lava onto my now simmering head. One of the English runners has taken a tumble and her knee and palm are reddened.

Afterwards, cake and biscuits are shared, and stories are traded beneath the pines. We record our names in an exercise book — relevantly enough — and leave comments in another notebook like we’ve been to a holiday house and had a grand weekend of laughter and communal meals and carafes of wine. In a way, it is. Scribbling a few kind words, I feel appreciative.

I finally meet core volunteer Mimmo with whom I’ve exchanged messages. He hugs me warmly. Twice.

Claire and I stroll down the mountain to the unclouded village of Nicolosi for coffee and pistachio cannoli.

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Brettos, Plaka, Athens

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Slipping in off the cobblestones, Claire and I are in Brettos. It’s the Plaka bar that’s nearly as ancient as the Acropolis.

Two walls are lined with vividly coloured bottles, backlit into a festive and wistful glow. At the rear, a bold wooden bar anchors the room; the place is theatrically staged yet quietly welcoming while the city outside thickens into evening.

It’s Saturday night in Athens. Brettos is the size of a modest lounge room and is intimate in ways that most Australian boozers fail: too much space and harsh light.

Michael Brettos opened it in 1909 as a distillery — now relocated. Tastings remain: olive oil, ouzo, wine. However, it’s rare that I have a swig of olive oil when in a pub. There’s excellent table service and the staff leave your receipt coiled in a shot glass.

We claim twin stools by a kaleidoscopic wall. This affords us slight elevation and vision over the crowd, so we people watch. All are well behaved and happy to be here — devoted to a good evening and each other. Being here makes us grin. Nearby a couple of Scandinavian girls break into Greek spirits-inspired song. It’s a joyous moment although they’re no Abba nor Nana Mouskouri. The Greek capital’s a long way from Stockholm.

There’s an agreeable sonic bed of chat and laughter which is neither too loud as to make our conversation difficult nor too quiet so there’s constant and involuntary eavesdropping. Vintage pop music plays in English — at just the right volume. It, too, is archaeological. We hear ‘I Try’ by Macy Gray from her album On How Life Is and it underscores the effortless coolness of this place. Not having heard this bluesy soul in decades, I vow to play it later. I do.

After a day of traipsing about, my local beer tastes like exotica. Claire’s cocktail’s comforting. It’s a snug coda to our time in Athens. The airport bus leaves Syntagma Square early tomorrow.

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A Run on Tianzhu East Road

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I see no one else on Tianzhu East Road, running in a Glenelg Tigers jumper.

It’s a wide and attractive thoroughfare, lined with parallel sweeps of evergreen trees. On the city side are colossal buildings, dedicated to aviation and aeronautics. To my east is the Beijing Capital International Airport.

It feels later than it is. Probably as I’ve flown from Adelaide to Melbourne to Beijing. At 3am the cabin lights came up ahead of a compulsory chicken or pork breakfast. Once customs, visa, and quarantine were complete, I had to catch a train from the terminal to a distant hub to retrieve my luggage from the carousel. This is a serious place.

Flying from Adelaide to Beijing to then get to the Mediterranean (Athens, Milos, Santorini, and Sicily) might seem desperately circuitous. That’s because it is. An unexpected bonus was that we’d visit China. The Great Wall beckons on our homeward leg. That’s the ancient fortification not the affordable family vehicle.

Between me and the airport lie enormous, empty blocks — menacing in their scale. I doubt they’ll remain vacant for long. I feel tiny here, as I imagine many of the 1.4 billion do. Nation is everything. The Cotswolds could be replicated on any of these blocks within a month, also leaving plenty of room for Clarkson’s cows and tractor.

As we taxied to the gate I could see a brown smear of smog over Beijing, but pale blue now paints the sky. The breeze is stern and crisp and unpolluted. Come winter, when it blasts in from Ulaanbaatar, I reckon my Glenelg Tigers jumper, despite its triple premiership warmth, might be a little thin.

My running streak nears 1,100 days, so I press on and suddenly a mountainous fence stops both vehicles and modestly exercising comrades. Some fences wink and invite you to sneak around or over and continue your business. This one does not. While I can see no glum-faced guards, I decide to return to my hotel. I leave the fence’s deeper symbolism uninterrogated.

I’m accompanied by streams of modern cars, all SUV-sized and finished in black, white, or grey. The footpath beneath my Brooks shoes is smooth and clean and there’s a peculiar near silence. I’m unsure why I’m surprised. Often, on our vast planet, similarities are more striking than differences.

My mind is sharply aware of others when travelling. Claire’s in Athens asleep by the Acropolis, my boys are moving through their Mondays in Adelaide, and many other dear ones are commencing their week, scattered about this bluish green sphere.

I veer across the concrete prairie of the hotel car park, obedient buses awaiting duty.

2

On watching 2001: A Space Odyssey with my boys

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Alex and I watched Kubrick’s magnum opus one Sunday afternoon when he was in year 9. The other night Max and I did too. Not only a film, it’s a cultural icon, and is representative of the rich, examined life I want them both to enjoy. Max asked great questions and found it puzzling and provocative.

The next morning while he was asleep, I watched the DVD of extras with its series of documentaries and I found myself taking pages of notes — part observation, part response. What follows are a few of those reflections.

*

The famous jump cut features the spinning animal bone. The slow motion drags us all into the poetic arc and the bone is concurrently a tool, weapon, and art. It is replaced by the space station. In a single cut, the infinitesimal holds millions of years. We are forced to leap across a chasm of history. This invites contemplation on the aspirations and achievements of humanity. The presence of the monolith with its 1:4:9 ratio invites us to consider that an external intervention may be responsible for our evolution.

When Dr. Floyd is travelling to the moon, he does so as a commuter who is often asleep. He never looks out the window as the view has become mundane to him. Ironically, Floyd’s lack of interest in his journey provokes awe in us: imagine being bored by the majesty of space! What a life it must be, to nap on your way to the moon. Or is Kubrick warning us not to be seduced by our own cleverness, and to retain our innocence and wonder? At various points, Max leant forward from his chair.

While profoundly visual, the film also functions as an opera. Strauss’s Blue Danube was chosen as it conjures unsurpassed beauty, and Kubrick wanted us to also see space as joyful. This, and the other music, form the film’s architecture. It slows the action and makes us behold the exquisiteness of space travel and the machines in which we push out into the universe. It is a tranquil prayer, as all prayer should be.

Kubrick also allowed silence to act as its own instrument. This is most telling when Bowman uses an explosion to re-enter Discovery One — there is no sound in space, so we hear nothing. We’re conditioned to expect a large accompaniment of noise but the lack of it heightens the drama. Silence enhances our response.

The score is singular with often only one sound at a time unlike the dense and complex noise common in cinema. The dominant, disturbing breathing of the space-suited astronauts can be interpreted as rhythmical or even musical, and it draws us into the character while evoking empathy and fear. It’s tempting to see its influence in Darth Vader’s breathing — but here Bowman is prey, not predator. Max and I spoke of the legacy of 2001. He recognised its influence in Star Wars and Project Hail Mary. I told him he should next watch Interstellar.

Taking advice from Carl Sagan, Kubrick decided to not show the aliens responsible for the monoliths — located on the African veld, lunar surface, and above Jupiter -— but only their unseen influence. He wanted to move away from the science-fiction of the 1950’s with its unconvincing humanoid aliens, preferring wisely to not ‘show the face of God’. Their appearance is not relevant, it is the impact they have, represented by the monoliths. This is like the first hour of Spielberg’s Jaws when we don’t see the full shark and this amplifies our terror. Even now when swimming in the shallows I know the worry is not what you can see but rather, what you can’t.

The final scene with Dave Bowman in a neoclassical bedroom is inspired by the Dorchester Hotel located near Hyde Park in London. The notion being that the aliens would want him to feel comfortable as he undergoes the transformation to Star Child. He is now foetal, yet preternaturally alert and serene. Bowman is about to be born into a form beyond the physical in which he’ll exist as pure consciousness and light.

*

Like the film’s black monolith, I hope 2001: A Space Odyssey promotes a life of curiosity and contemplation for Alex and Max. I cherished the chance to invite them into this luminous world and wish that it might be a catalyst for a small, continuing evolution in both.

0

Gather Round – Aural Tattoos and Antique Hair

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Noon and I am at Barossa Park after a voyage by foot, tram, train, and bus. My unicycle tyre is flat. As she’s today’s Auslan interpreter, Claire arrived separately, around breakfast, for a succession of production meetings. My journey’s highlight was, of course, the psycho-geographical pull of the Womma train station and its triumphant desolation.

Lyndoch #2 hosts a gluttony of food trucks — or as they were known effectively for millennia, stalls. A stage awaits the post-match concert. The coffee van’s doing a brisker trade than Pirate Life. As the official beer of the Fringe and now Gather Round, these ale arrivistes are everywhere. Once compulsory at Adelaide events, Coopers is now vanquished. But not on my Friday veranda.

It’s 9 degrees with an apparent temperature of 2.9. Gloomy clouds are menacing over Nuriootpa. When I was a kid, this was always the way. Last year Gather Round witnessed cricket weather. I’ve missed the footy’s start but large screens —are these Jumbotrons? — show the Fox telecast. On the wing, an opportunity for face-painting. I resist.

Inside, the crowd throbs about the fence. The scaffolded stands have empty seats. Brisbane gets a goal although I can’t see who. I know neither the goal celebration song grab, nor the player for whom this is an aural tattoo.

I circumnavigate the ground once known, with admirable topographical honesty, as Lyndoch Oval but now recast for the viniculturally vulnerable of the eastern seaboard as Barossa Park.

On a grassy expanse called the Barossa Terrace, I note outdoor lounge settings along with bar tables and stools. Of this languid arrangement, I approve. Wine barrels punctuate the vista.

There’re additional purveyors of sauerkraut and shiraz (not in the same glass). I’m pleased that the local footy and cricket clubs have fundraising booths providing tasty grub. But I wonder how much they had to pay the AFL for the right to do so on their own ancient soil.

Beyond Kangaroo blue and white and Brisbane Lions jumpers and scarves, the bouncing throng is flecked with Freo colours and Carlton kit, Hawks beanies, and the clashing colours of the Crows and Power. Gather Round might be the truest meeting of all the tribes. A bloke on the concourse sports a retro tracksuit with Fitzroy Runner on the back. It could only be improved if he were in Ciak shoes and dragging on an Ardath.

I’m tracking towards the south-eastern goals when an arm shoots out of the crowd and apprehends me. A voice then chirps, ‘How are you, fella?’ A circle of chaps, some of whom I’ve not seen in a decade. We’re all burdened by antique hair but otherwise are in acceptable nick, given weight for age (WFA) provisions.

I talk to Jason about recently completing the New York marathon. I ask if he hit the wall.

‘Yeah, about thirty-five k in.’

‘You got through it?’

‘The worst bit is the finish. You go over a bridge, look up and there’s a sea of bobbing heads. It’s a really cruel hill.’

I offer, ‘Nothing like making it easier at the end.’

Meanwhile, as Stephen Colbert says (at least for a few more weeks), the footy continues. Swells of pop songs tell me Brisbane is surging. If I were a Lion and launched a successful bomb from twenty-five, could I use Frank Zappa’s Billy the Mountain? I imagine rookies have had Kevin Bloody Wilson rejected.

I chat with Fish about the charms of country footy, especially when you’ve no investment in either team. Squally Saturdays, sitting in the car, wipers slapping, honking appreciation before a half-time canteen dash.

Fish and his wife have taken in local footy on the Yorke and Eyre Peninsulas, the Clare Valley, the Riverland. He tells me, ‘We kept notes for a while on the various pies and sausage rolls and if they’d Southwark Stout in the bar.’ I say, ‘There’s a book in this.’ Fish nods.

After the final siren, I glance up at a big screen on my way to Gate 2. Charlie Cameron’s being interviewed. On the other side of the host, my wife is interpreting. I pull out my phone to take a photo of nine-foot Claire. It’s flat.

But I’ve got a shot of Womma. That might be enough.

0

Can It Already Be Five Years?

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Triumphant and a little startled, we strolled into Kapunda Foodland. A supermarket, yes — but that day it felt like a secret cathedral, as though the ordinary had been quietly transformed just for us. We glided through the aisles, past magical shelves, freshly stocked and bold. It was a vivid intrusion in that old town: affirming light catching on the joyous earth, revealing colours and fragrances previously unknown. The trolley rolled easily before us, as if it, too, wished to blaze our celebrations.

Our congregation assembled on the croquet lawn of Kapunda High School while we stood within an intimate orbit, newly bound and certain. On that Saturday afternoon, beneath a leaden sky and the wide, welcoming arms of the Moreton Bay Fig, we traded whisperings during the ceremony — small, private currents skipping through a most public moment. A joke passed between us, barely audible, yet enough to capture and delight.

In the midnight quiet, the walk home from Dutton Park. We crossed the railway line, passing the train in its silent playground and Rawady’s Deli — all of it seeming to conspire, finally, in our favour. The world had softened into black velvet, the sky dusted with a delicate pepper of stars. The town slept, offering a kind of reverence, and Baker and then Hill streets became church aisles of their own. We walked them together, up and down the gentle rises, the trees along the footpaths like chaperones, bearing witness as we began.

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Mystery Pub: Plenty of Room at the Hotel Colac

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In a suburb stuffed with notorious pubs, The Colac was Port Adelaide’s worst. It was known as The Bloodhouse. It was abandoned for decades. The land around it formerly summoned The Great Gatsby.

This is the valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens

The pub has reopened and is splendidly appointed. Opulent furnishing, sublime art, strangely odourless air. Light drenches the two stories and three distinct spaces, having bent in from the becalmed Port River. Later jazz, a piano ready on the stage. Wagyu and other prized cuts in a cabinet.

The wait staff were welcoming but began yapping at us like terrier pups, having gone from attentive to nutso annoying.

How were the customary hot chips? Sprinkled with fetta, garlic oil, wolfed.

The Colac is now crowded in by eager rows of boxy terrace homes, like an English village. Is the invigoration of the Port finally underway?

*

Home, with the dark descending. It’s my favourite hour for a vinyl album so I popped on Hotel California.  Shoeless, Claire busied herself cheerfully. I plonked myself in a chair.

I read recently the title track is, among many other things, a reggae song. This genre is difficult to love due to its repetitive boing-boing. For me The Eagles’ tour de force is now tainted. I hope I can reverse this.

Clasping a refreshment, Life in the Fast Lane began with its sunset swagger. As Claire scurried in and out, I contemplated how the guitars are like a Chevy Impala hurtling down Mulholland Drive. The melody and the lyrics marry. When sound mirrors the meaning is this word painting the musical equivalent of onomatopoeia?

The penultimate track is the sun-kissed Try and Love Again, sung by the late Randy Meisner. He’s best known for Take It to the Limit, where his voice soars — arguably their finest. But the nightly demand of it became a private terror. ‘I was always kind of shy… They wanted me to stand in the middle of the stage… but I liked to be out of the spotlight.’ He quit at the zenith of their fame. How cruel to be haunted by your gift?

*

Saturday saw the next in this year’s succession of milestone parties. A 5.30pm start for our dear friend, JB. On the veranda, I wondered aloud to nobody that our social functions now conclude at the hour they once would have begun.

The theme was a reprise of her previous big celebration: come as the person, you’d like to be, so Claire and I both transmogrified to seventeen-year-olds. A school dress (Claire) and Kapunda High blazer (me). Are we misguided in wanting to be younger versions of ourselves?

At JB’s 2016 birthday, I’d gone as The Dude from The Big Lebowski. He remains a profound inspiration but now proved too difficult to properly source, sartorially.

Across the backyard, Eagle Rock chugged. With Michelle’s kind kidnapping, I participated — trousers hitched. Later the song Mickey played. Trish performed a cruelly accurate impression of year 12 me doing the Health Hustle.

In the courtyard, they danced on, sweet with summer sweat — some to remember, some to forget.

It was a heartening weekend.