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The Eighth Caller Through: The Cars, Neil Young, and Goanna

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Aside from Derek and Clive, Caddyshack, and late capitalism, old mucker Lukey and I natter and laugh about music. He played drums in 90’s Adelaide bands Imelda’s Shoes and Fuge. I remember my late-night excitement at hearing him keeping time on a song Richard Kingsmill introduced on Triple J. At 10pm on a Tuesday, it was fame by association.

Last Christmas, Lukey dropped off a stack of old vinyl — hefty, musty, and packed with sentimental promise.

*

The Cars – Greatest Hits

I recall Shake It Up as a mood-lifter, and I’m sure the Grand Prix night of 1986 when Chrisso, Lukey, and I were in Nick’s unhinged Honda on the Freeling straight, there was plenty of brotherly love. Doubtless, The Cars roared out the open windows of that hatch-back as we hurtled past the darkened barley.

Can you imagine how many Triple Tracks of The Cars were rolled out on SA-FM across the 80s? If I had an icy-cold can of coke for each one then, well, I’d be diabetic and dead. I connect this Boston band with adolescent summers and oddly enough being in cars — like Nick’s Honda — rushing to the cricket, the drive-in, the beach at Port Willunga.

The songs are mostly upbeat with guitars and robotic Roland synths. Although I’ve made no deep investigation, the lyrics were the usual love’s good or love might be good or love’s a mess formula. Yes, mostly empty but we were nineteen, music didn’t need to be apocalyptic and Dylanesque. Solemn examinations of the human condition optional.

Uh well dance all night and whirl your hair
Make the night cats stop and stare
Dance all night go to work
Do the move with quirky jerk

Given The Cars drove, err, in a tight lane, you could be forgiven for thinking it’s all the same song, but I like Just What I Needed, You Might Think, and My Best Friend’s Girl.

*

Comes A Time – Neil Young

The muted tone of the sleeve triggers a memory of a TDK C-90 tape, though I can’t remember who dubbed it for me. I was fourteen — an age when life arrives without notice. Side 2 could’ve been Glass Houses by Billy Joel. How does music find us?

Unlike his noise-guitar work with Crazy Horse, this is mostly quiet — occasionally country, but entirely Sunday afternoon.

Lotta Love is a favourite song from it. He sings in a fragile, upper-register voice that threatens to fray into a whine. But doesn’t. Nicolette Larson provides harmony vocals on it and across the album. She covered it soon after and it became her signature song. Melburnian Courtney Barnett did a worthy version too.

The title track, Peace Of Mind, and Four Strong Winds are other standouts.

*

Spirit Of Place – Goanna

Arriving during the summer I turned sixteen, whenever I flick across my car radio at the lights and the urgent drums of Solid Rock pound through the speakers, I’m instantly back in hot and hilly Kapunda.

It was among the first pricks to my conscience regarding the harm caused to Australia’s original inhabitants. The satirical use of marketplace warned me that money could be more important than people.

Out here nothin’ changes
Not in a hurry anyway
You can feel the endlessness
With the comin’ of the light of day
You’re talkin’ ’bout a chosen place
You wanna sell it in a marketplace, well
Well, just a minute now

I haven’t dropped the needle on it since I had nut-brown hair, so I’m gladly startled by its warmth. Burnt country and ragged outsiders hang in the melodies. I partly expected it to feel dated, but the songs and the storytelling are timeless. Shane Howard’s vocals are gracefully commanding, all woodsmoke and Kimberley sunsets.

Razor’s Edge, On the Platform, and Four Weeks Gone are my top picks.

*

Thanks, Lukey, for rocketing by in the DeLorean/ Black Thunder to drop off my prize pack. I must’ve been the eighth caller through to Vinny and Cameron on SA-FM’s Morning Zoo. Vinyl isn’t just a nostalgia machine — the needle, the hiss and crackle come first, and then the music — and for a heartbeat, it isn’t the past at all. It’s right now — the way it found us in the first place.

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Waiting Under the Bucket

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Steering away from Becks Bakehouse, my bland sausage roll begins its sluggish transit. I turn up the Mississippi bluesman, Elmore James, so Max and I can hear the chugging genius of Dust My Broom

I’m gon’ get up in the morning
I believe I’ll dust my broom.
I’m gonna get up in the morning
I believe I’ll dust my broom.

Our trip to Victor Harbor had begun.

It was time to talk against the rhythm of (hopefully) agreeable activity, to gently explore Max’s inner and outer worlds, to scrutinise his present and point an encouraging telescope towards his future. We go nowhere new. Sometimes the best excursions are to known places.

Granite Island is everybody’s favourite isle and we’ve circumnavigated it often. On the ocean-side I realise I’ve not looked at the rolling waves, rocky cliffs, or blue sky, extending above us. I am immersed. We are talking and walking.

We stop at a gnarly tree, years ago its horizontal trunk the setting when Alex slipped while climbing. His tumbling then straddling generated much hot grief. Max and I laugh at the image.

Our holiday cabin is agreeably spartan, so we sling in our stuff and venture to the waterslides. Hopping out of the pool, I point to the big bucket, tilting slowly, thrillingly on its hinge. ‘It’s been a while since we stood under a bucket,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’ Max follows me there.

I can see him there as a five-year-old — smaller, impatient, bouncing with limitless energy. We step underneath it now. There’s no one else waiting. The mechanism teeters as it fills. It takes longer than I remember. ‘It’s going to go,’ Max says. But it doesn’t. Not yet. Then it does — all at once — a hard, cold weight of water, and I let out a yelp I didn’t mean to make.

A late afternoon drive to Goolwa wharf and its bars and cafes. Max remembered a school excursion here to ride on the old paddlewheel ship, the Oscar W. A riverfront German bar is selling litre steins of beer for $25 each. The straggly-bearded bartender asked, ‘Can I get you one?’ I decline and later say to Max, ‘One of those bad boys and I couldn’t drive home!’

We pulled up outside the Port Elliot townhouse which hosts my annual writing retreat. I wanted to remind Max of life’s possibilities. Then a lap of Horseshoe Bay. The swimmers had all gone. The short jetty we’d leapt from that cold January day was empty. Max said, ‘I like this beach.’ I smiled, ‘Me too.’

With shadows stretching by the games room and the camp kitchen we hit the ignite button and barbecued our dinner. Park dwellers scurry past us. We devour the meat and token salad.

In our cabin Eminem rapped as we scanned the rules of backgammon. Max likes chess, so I thought another strategic, quietly played pastime might suit us both. Accompanied by the regular percussion of rattling dice, we enjoy a couple of lingering games. Neither he nor I is especially competitive and so we play kindly, even cooperatively. The scoreline is 1-1.

Throughout there’s easy talk about cars, footy, travel. Max asks, ‘Would you go to Berlin or Munich?’ I offer what I can. He nods, carefully. I fear he’ll soon be in Germany.

*

Running along the esplanade in the windless dawn, I feel a melancholic gratitude. Max is asleep back at the cabin. We’ve had a sparkling series of chats against this coastal backdrop.

Parenting, though, guarantees a background anxiety. I try to picture the next time Max and I might escape like this, just the two of us. But I wonder how many chances we’ll have to huddle under a tipping, giant bucket.

4

A Brief History of the Triple Jump and Human Suffering

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Today I made a return to Sports Day. Some things have changed. Others absolutely have not.

The digital watch had just struck ten when the first vomiting incident was reported. A technicolour hula-hoop on the freshly mown turf. He’d not over-exerted nor breathed in his body-volume in energy drinks. Just an early morning vommie. To open proceedings.

I wandered to the fundraising BBQ. This year it was burnt by the Art Faculty. Disappointingly, I could buy no Picasso Chicken Patties or Last Supper Sausages.

In a relaxed corner, under some trees, there were games for those who find traditional sports unappealing. These included Giant Jenga and Connect Four. These are, of course, London beer-garden pursuits and should be encouraged as they develop essential life skills.

Meanwhile the resident DJ played Eminem, who would appreciate the irony. I imagine he has little truck with athletes and enthusiastically despises them. Even if some now sport Mum’s spaghetti on their singlets — courtesy of an early morning puke.

Much of my day was officiating the triple jump or as it’s variously known: the hop, step and jump, or in certain depraved circles, the hop, skip and jump. For most, it’s an exercise in assured humiliation as the poor souls approach the take-off mat with halting trepidation, their adolescent eyes wide with fright.

Often, instead of the triple jump, they then perform a sad sequence of biomechanical accidents borrowing from John Cleese’s Ministry of Silly Walks, a little boot-scootin’, and the dying buffalo in Apocalypse Now. Participants have three attempts but while I was on rake and tape measure duties, it was mostly one and done.

They fled the triple jump as if a spitting cobra was loose.

There must’ve been an Ancient Greek who drunkenly happened across this, in dusty Athens, following much ancient vino.

Christos: Watch this, Aristotle. I call it the triple jump.
Aristotle: Why not simply run from Point Alpha to Point Beta?
Christos: Too sensible. My invention will inflict psychological suffering on schoolchildren for millennia.

Christos then invited others to try it. Some thoughtlessly agreed and inexplicably, it caught on. Hereinafter was set loose centuries of global misery which continues unchecked to this day.

I love many sports and am sympathetic to many athletic pursuits. Running, jumping and throwing all have worldly value. But the triple jump, unlike other physical disciplines, is utterly non-transferable to real life. It may be the most futile human endeavour imaginable. If a ravenous beast — real or mythical — were on your Hellenic tail, who would break into a hop, skip and jump?

I enjoyed Sports Day. Congratulations to all who won a blue ribbon.

Thus, the ancient suffering continues.

4

McCartney

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Scott Fitzgerald? Dylan? Richard Ford? These loom large. But, for me, the most significant cultural figure is Paul McCartney. I was reminded of this again last Sunday as I sat in a packed Prospect cinema watching the post-Beatles documentary, Man on the Run. It asks, what happens after you leave the most important band in the world?

When I was a boy, the Beatles were a blissful part of my life. Mum played music in our home. She had the ‘Love Me Do’ single, which she bought in 1962. I loved the cartoon series and especially the opening credits, when they tried to outrun mobs of screaming girls. During this ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’ played and it was the most exciting thing in my world. I understood little of their lyrics, but as I sat on the orange carpet in front of our boxy Pye television, their charismatic melodies sent something electric through me.

Paul is my favourite Beatle. It’s largely his endless optimism and sunny nature. Even at eighty-three, his hopefulness is his defining, irresistible trait.

*

Following Paul through the 1970’s the film focusses upon his new band, Wings. Even without the Beatles, if he’d simply arrived in 1971, his catalogue would still be magnificent. Among my favourite ever musical moments is the soprano saxophone on ‘Listen to What the Man Said.’

Regardless of context or mood, I’m always uplifted by it. The saxophonist was Tom Scott and his very first take ended up on the song. With Claire’s consent, we included it on our wedding playlist. It’s golden light falling across a tropical beach.

Any time, any day
You can hear the people say
That love is blind
Well, I don’t know, but I say love is kind

*

It agitated many that Linda was in her husband’s group. A common view was that she couldn’t sing, play keyboards, or contribute much, at all. The film naturally slants towards McCartney’s opinion. Another reason that I hold him in such boundless affection is his reflections on this and love. He speaks glowingly of her talents and her skills as a wife, mother and artist. In the cinema dark I thought of Claire and shed a tear when he stated that from his wife, beyond all her other gifts, he ‘learnt so much.’

*

Lennon and McCartney were like brothers. Both lost their mothers young. They wrote bridges for each other. They argued ferociously. Reflecting upon their long partnership the surviving Beatle remarked how when things got out of hand, Lennon would sometimes take off his glasses, lay them on the table, smile across at him, and say, ‘Paul. It’s me, John.’

*

I’ve long believed that one of the very best ways to spend half an hour is by listening to a Beatles record. Another fine investment is to immerse yourself in the boyish wonder and brightness of Paul McCartney’s subsequent music. Fifty years later, sitting in my cinema seat, that optimism still feels like the most exciting thing in the world.

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Mystery Pub: The Cremorne, Unley Jets, and 1996

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My last footy club was the Unley Jets. In my career-ending game my eyebrow was split like an overcooked sav, so I spent an eternal afternoon at Flinders Medical Centre. A fistful of stitches.

One dead-of-winter Tuesday, we were told to bring a ten-dollar note to training. In our footy gear we jogged with coach Darryl Smith out of Jet Park (Kingswood Oval) onto Belair Road and to a handful of pubs including the Earl of Leicester, the Unley, and the Cremorne. Leaving the club Smithy advised us ‘to tuck the tenner into your sock.’

This was a tremendous drill. In each front bar, we had a butcher of beer (200ml glass). It was a morale boost and, above all the rainy nights of circle work, laps and criss-cross handball drills, this is the session I remember. Now, butchers and cash are relics. I wonder if the Jets still follow this tradition.

I recall the Cremorne being daggy and dark in 1996. Even as the surrounding suburbs were elegant and expensive. But it was cosy and reassuring with hazy light flickering from tiny TAB monitors. Claire selected it as our Mystery Pub for February.

In 2026 it’s renovated with an abundance of glass and steel, and light and space. There are no British boozer-type nooks. No butcher glasses either. The smell of old smoke’s replaced with that of roasted eggplant.

Between the front bar and Unley Road is a beer garden but it’s hot out and we don’t fancy traffic noise and pollution as a weekend entrée. The Chaser — the dopey quiz show and not the satirical comedy — is on the big outdoor screen and this, too, is a disincentive.

Tradition insists that the host buy the first round. I claim a window table and like an opening ceremony, Claire then appears with a white wine and an XPA for me. The pea-soup appearance suggests my beer’s from the bottom of the keg. Does it taste better? Probably not. Nostalgia improves most things.

My Unley Jets nostalgia continues. At the neighbouring table I spy former team-mate and club icon, Hoggy. Shaking hands, I introduce Claire. And just like that, it’s 1996 again. I ask, ‘You still working at the courts?’ He replies, ‘No. Been out of that for a while. At SA Pathology now.’ Hoggy was a goal sneak with great game sense. We trade news and sightings of former club mates. I love bumping into people.

Back at our table, I scratch at my calf. Is it a sentimental ten-dollar note magically itching to be eased out of my sock?

No, it’s 2026.

Footy training’s now just a memory for me. At the bar, I take out my phone and ding, pay for my final XPA pint.

No sock required.

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Right Then, It Was Perfect

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I entrusted the itinerary of a warm Saturday afternoon to Claire.

Walking towards Moseley Square past Colley Reserve and the Beach House, we caught the scent of salty air and summery promise.

Claire’s first stop was the Bay Discovery Centre, housed in the billowing white of the Town Hall. How had I never been? My excuse is I’m certain there’re Parisiennes who sullenly avoid the Eiffel Tower too.

Inside was the kitsch and the considered. We saw displays featuring pioneering aviator Jimmy Melrose, a local history of forbidden beachwear with the bikini only allowed a few short decades ago — racy Brighton before coquettish Glenelg.

Also, a section dedicated to objects found on the ocean floor. A wall of vanished keys, jewellery, pocketknives.

Unforgivably, I’d cheerfully ignored this museum since last millennium.

*

Claire now steered us south. Easing off Jetty Road in Brighton we arrived by the Windsor Cinema. It’s functional rather than Art Deco beautiful. The cook/cleaner/usher/ barista/projectionist explained, ‘We had trouble with the first feature so your film’s about half an hour later.’

So, an opportune intermission with a shared coffee and melting moments biscuits. The third of these tempted us and Claire said, ‘Let’s have half each.’

Right then, it was perfect.

We settled into the Windsor for The Senior. Watching a middle-aged Texan chase a lost college football dream felt like an odd choice for Claire, yet there we were — her gift of endurance for a genre in which she has no earthly interest. Knowing I’ve an interest in the sport, my kindly wife picked the film for me.

I enjoy, as Paul Kelly observed, how moments of sporting grace can be found amidst danger. When a goal or wicket or touchdown is conjured from the most despairing of situations. As the most critical member of any team in any sport, the quarterback can create in astonishing ways.

Being set in West Texas, there were compulsory mentions of war and religion, and these remain the same thing. It had a predictable plot of redemption — personal, family, marital — and these all occurred for our good ole boy but there was a warmth to the story we both liked.

*

Monday was Alex’s eighteenth birthday. On the phone I asked this:

‘I know you’ve got parties and things planned but what do you want to do on your actual birthday?’

I imagined he might want to go out to dinner with his girlfriend Harriet or head to the city with some friends. To my delight he announced he’d be happy to go to the Broady, have a pizza and his first legal beer.

Table 9 and its multi-generational party were ahead of us in the queue. They ordered multi-course meals and lavish drinks with glacial urgency. Aunt Maud’s turnout was bigger than any of us expected. We got served after a prolonged fashion.

In the beer garden Alex and I took our table by the ill-fated frangipani. Under the pergola a sloppy clot of blokes sipped Guinness. With relaxed animation we chatted of his weekend; university offers (Flinders and the VCA); how Harriet’s dad is taking him to see The Beta Band; his road trip to Sydney to hear an avant garde Japanese guitarist; the Pink Floyd vinyl both Harriet and I bought him — Wish You Were Here and Relics.

I relished his company and our soaring hour vanished into the indigo sky. Alex is curious, grateful, and seems to have a growing toolkit of what I hope he’ll need. I’m delighted that he voluntarily seeks support — what Richard Ford, in The Sportswriter, calls ‘the illumination and warmth it mutely offers.’

I dropped Alex at his girlfriend’s. With Three D Radio for company, I drove home through our sparkling seaside suburb.

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The Horizon and the Rearview Mirror

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Coming through the door, I stalled, disoriented by the scene.

I was at once acutely proud but also stricken with dread. Here we were in the foyer of Services SA — a bland government office, all beige, take a number, credit card or cash, Sir? — and outside it was Saturday morning.

Our agenda was motoring.

Frozen in the doorway I stared again. Alex and Max were hunched over a wooden bench, both six foot two and affable with easy nature and blond foppishness. There was an orderly murmuring across the bureaucratic space: productive snippets of dialogue, folks taking care of business, transactions underway.

Max was completing his form. ‘What’re block letters, Dad?’ I told him and with his respectful and deliberate writing he continued. At his right shoulder Alex worked through his paperwork with that same Labrador eagerness he’s carried since he was small.

I flipped between encouraging words and my thrumming denial that we’d arrived at this place. My boys were here, and while the scene felt familiar — like a re-run of an old TV episode — it was also unknowable. Alex and Max were buzzing with laconic excitement — I was happy but forlorn at how time had brutally evaporated.

Documents finished, we took our queue numbers from the cheerful staff and claimed our seats. A large screen tracked our progress, blinking along with robotic announcements: ‘C45.’ Five minutes later, ‘C46.’

It was much too early and much too late.

Waiting, we cycled through topics of interest: the boys’ work, school for Max, their friends.

All the while my internal commentary ran: Have I done my job here? Is now the time for moral instruction about their responsibilities, soon to descend like netting? Or do I just tell them to check their blind spots?

Pushing through the doors into the dazzling light, we eased across the car park. Both towered over me in their gentle ways. Max held his papers in his hand. His phone app was now loaded. He would soon learn to drive.

Alex’s car was waiting for us. He’d already swapped his L plates for P plates. He was on the road. They were, again, with these welcome and unstoppable advances, on their way. We had all become older.

Alex drove the three of us back to Glenelg. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ hung in the car’s interior. Their worlds had just expanded to a new, adult horizon. Mine had become, somehow, smaller.

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Mystery Pub: How Happily Wrong We Were

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Located on Adelaide’s connective West Terrace, we’ve all crawled past this pub countless times. Some twice daily. Its looks are dire. Beige, daggy, less architectural interest than a toilet block.

I vowed that it’d never feature as Mystery Pub.

This doesn’t mean I haven’t patronised it. Its drive-through bottle shop is my port of call for a triumphant sparkling ale for the trip home (express lane) following a Glenelg premiership. That’s three now. And last year a consolatory beer when defeated by Sturt.

We wedge into the carpark’s last spot. Inside a boisterous and dedicated crowd is in the front bar. The dining room seems expectant in a country pub way. There’s good stuff such as Schnitzel Night (under fifteen bucks), comfy booths, our promptly arriving hot chips. A well for watering horses is below glass on the bar floor. Claire investigates. The abandoned Kings Head was another with a well.  

By the rear entrance Hump Day, Rump Day is promoted which could be an over-promise. Dusty ceramic elephants grace the salad bar. Above our booth is a photo of Zip Zip Aray, winner of the 2002 Goodwood Handicap, posing at the finishing line.

There are men; large men, anchored at the bar, as men sometimes are. Many modern venues don’t accommodate this. They appear to be on chairs over which they’ve claimed sovereignty. This might be a diminishing sight. It’s suggestive of a former, black and white era. I can imagine Don Dunstan sipping awkwardly at a schooner while cameras flash.

On the distant wall of screens, the first at the Dubbo trots is run and won. There is a Happy Hour and each of the eight beers on tap has a unique price. The barman is agitated that he can’t recall these. In his world Rowdy is West End Draught and Dave enjoys a Carlton. I’m tempted to ask for a butcher of Southwark. Claire’s white wine comes in a 1970’s glass. No goldfish bowls here.

We talk of our days, my new (old) job, our autumnal trip to Italy and Greece. After our allotted hour, I’m reluctant to leave this so clearly beloved hotel. I jettison Claire in Victoria Square for the opening ceremony of the Tour Down Under. She’s interpreting the proceedings and later reports how teenage girls screamed as the jockey-like European cyclists were presented to the throng. Phoney Beatlemania hasn’t bitten the dust. I head beachward along Anzac Highway.

How happily wrong we were about this beige, daggy pub.

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To Alex and Max, on our Hobart Holiday

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Dear Alex and Max

If Bali was about tropical warmth and Sydney was about the mesmerising beauty of the harbour, Hobart was something else entirely — a trip defined by the vertical. From the bonkers sub-zero winds atop Mount Wellington to the windowless caverns of MONA, we spent our days either climbing or descending.

There’s something generous about arriving in a city on a Friday. Irregular seagull cries above our heads — oddly rare in Glenelg — heightened the maritime atmosphere. On Elizabeth Street, we explored Tommy Gun Records from which Alex emerged with the vinyl of Spiritualized’s classic album Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space. You’re certainly an audiophile or crate-digger! How you spoke about its musical and cultural qualities was astonishing. I also liked our first trip to Banjo’s bakery — which originated in Tasmania. Max’s comment that, ‘There’s nothing here I wouldn’t eat’ is a truism.

Down by the Brooke Street and Elizabeth Street piers, we strode about. Admiring a giant ocean liner at Macquarie Wharf no. 5, Max told us he’s planning a cruise once school is done. I’m always heartened by this kind of aspiration and the widescreen and global nature of your hopes. Pepperoni pizza from Medici — conveniently located on Murray Street for all your Italian cuisine needs — and inhaled in our Allurity Hotel room was an excellent conclusion to our first day.

Half of the Apple Isle squeezes into the Salamanca Markets on Saturday mornings, all there for gin, juice, and scallop pie tastings. Max and I hung back while Alex bought himself some outrageously overpriced (artisan) biscuits. Aboard the MONA ROMA fast ferry, we took in the River Derwent — low-rise bungalows on modest hills, the jaunty angles of Bellerive Oval’s light towers. After sightseeing at ground level, then came our descent into the subterranean playground of the museum.

I loved watching you both interrogate that place. It’s a confusing, jarring, and often brilliant maze. Whether we were traversing the colossal concrete war — evoking, for me, the brutality of a concentration camp, the sparks installation, or the Fat Car Porsche, I appreciated how you engaged with both heart and head. We talked about what constitutes art and what does not. Another highlight was the psychedelic band Spooky Eyes and their boisterous set on the MONA lawn.

The Uber drive up Mount Wellington was unforgettable. Terror always does this to me. Leaving the gentle suburban streets, we watched the trees shrink until there was only ancient, shattered rock and a sky that felt far too close. Standing at the summit, looking down at the tiny toy-town of Hobart below — the three of us were, momentarily, the highest beings in the city.

Hiking down was a test of more than just our legs; it was a test of our resilience against that piercing Tasmanian wind and for me alone, the fear of tumbling into the abyss and becoming wallaby food. Watching you both steer between the boulders — Alex leading the way and Max offering the dry commentary that has become his trademark — I was struck by how appreciative you both are of the wilder parts in this world.

Battery Point provided a genteel contrast. Wandering those handsome streets with the sandstone cottages and a southerly sun on our faces, it felt like we’d stepped into 1800s Cornwall. It’d been a bakery trip, and our grand final was at Jackman and McRoss, surely a Michelin-starred pie shop! With table service and desserts for both younger Randalls, this was a triumph.

Pausing in Arthur Circus, you both jumped on the swings and suddenly, it was a decade ago in any of a dozen playgrounds. For the final time in Hobart, we’d another vertical moment.

Thank you for liking the steep climbs, and the strange art. You both have a knack for turning a simple walk through an old suburb or a trek up a mountain into a shared event. It’s not just about the destination; it’s about the moments in between.

And this, my witty, kind, dear boys, is all I can ask for.

Dad

xx

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50,000 Residents of Corny Point Can’t Be Wrong

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Woodsy was from Kadina and moved to Kapunda. We hung out. He was always bumping into people from Corny Point. We’d be at a Gold Coast theme park, clambering off a rollercoaster, and Woodsy would spy a bloke from there. Or walking through Kings Cross in Sydney, he’d run into two more. Always spotting somebody, he’d tear off to chat and upon his return Lukey or Chrisso or I’d inquire, ‘Corny Point?’ — and Woodsy would reply, ‘Yeah.’ And then tell us all about it. After a while, I wondered if 50,000 people must have lived there.

Claire and I stayed in Marion Bay and drove to Corny Point. The first Friday of this year seemed perfect for this. I expected the township to be by the beach. Instead, it was inland, at the crossroads — caravan park, CFS, community church.

The Corny Point Cricket Club is also in the middle of town. Two sprinklers gallantly try to brighten the grass around the pitch. There are cosy clubrooms with old wooden benches and a couch in its alcove. I imagine the clatter of a bat being flung by a disgruntled batsman. Then, a spurt of applause for a crisp drive scurrying over the baked outfield — someone encouraging, ‘Yeah, good shot, Blue.’

A neighbourhood book exchange sits by the cricket oval entrance — a windowed wooden box on a stand. We see these in many towns during our holiday. How great to have one right by the cricket ground? Claire and I flick through the collection. You could select a historical fiction title, park beneath a tree, and with the first innings underway, lose yourself in a few chapters, only glancing up when the thud of ball on willow disrupts your sleepy immersion. Later, just after tea, you could amble into the clubrooms and say, ‘I’ll have a shandy, thanks Fred.’ Cricket was always the most literary and dignified of sports — even here, in dusty Corny Point.

Parking on the beach, we absorb the panorama. The sand is crunchy beneath our toes. We’re both instantly delivered to our childhoods. The salty afternoon breeze is resuscitating. We wade about, the water shimmering. Claire remembers a holiday in Cooboowie. ‘It was one of the few times I remember Dad swimming,’ she offers. The wide and clean sand takes me to a place too. When I was ten, Mum, Dad, Jill, and I went to Port Vincent. I recall my plastic bucket of tiny crabs, scooped from the balmy sea. At Corny Point boats glide in. A tractor tugs out a fishing vessel. With the promise of fish, pelicans gather patiently. It’s among the best beaches I’ve visited.

The Howling Dog Tavern is named for a mention in Matthew Flinders’ journal. It was five-ish, so we veered into the carpark. Ours was the smallest vehicle there. Happy hour, and a noisy crowd’s in. The new owners dart about behind the taps, eagerly dispensing refreshment. With a Pike’s white and a Pale Ale, Claire and I take a pew on the veranda — where the ceiling fans bother away the flies. Folks drift in from the caravan park, or on Saturdays, from the cricket oval. For the hundredth time, I ask Claire, ‘What’s the difference between a pub and a tavern?’ We still don’t know. I wonder how many people in the buzzing bar know Woodsy. I’m sure at least one or two.

Driving out, I scan the crossroads one last time. I don’t see Woodsy, or too many of the 50,000 residents, but I finally understand.

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Mystery Pub: Permission to Pretend

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The Rockford Hotel sits midships on Hindley Street. It’s across from the abandoned Rosemount pub, all sticky carpets and blurry memory, another CBD tombstone in the spreading cemetery of inner-city boozers. It’s a mere five-minute amble from Claire’s work, taking us past the contagion of convenience stores, and the sludgy waves of Friday afternoon traffic.

Inside is largely empty and thrillingly quiet. A bar should be either instantly familiar or agreeably alien. We claim some comfy, low chairs, the type popular in motel lobbies. These enhance the theatrical-stage ambiance.

It’s a space of glass and chrome; the kind that makes you feel more important than you actually are — surely the chief function of interior design; to abnormally elevate our self-esteem, if only for the briefest interval. This hermetically sealed allusion is strangely attractive; the air is scrubbed clean, belonging to a space shuttle.

With ale and wine purchased Claire and I submerge into our surrounds. At an adjacent table is a young man — he might be twenty — with calf tattoos and baggy shirt, sitting alone with a beer. He appears as if he belongs in a Macca’s or on a skateboard, click-clacking outside along the darkly stained footpath. I wonder if he’s a rapper, here for a gig at the neighbouring Hindley Street Music Hall. I say to Claire, ‘Is he staying in an upstairs room or like us, just here for a drink?’ We don’t ask him. Hotel bars give people permission to be somebody they prefer.

Pubs necessarily attract punters with no widescreen backstory but those in a venue with rooms attached possess broader narrative possibility. Are they in town for a conference or a nasty meeting? Or maybe clandestine pleasure? Have they just awoken from an ill-advised nap as they adjust from Dallas time?

Our mandatory hot chips appear instantly while despite the sparseness of the bar, Claire’s martini takes nearly twenty minutes to arrive. The staff have no urgency or investment. In that interval, martini aficionado James Bond could dispatch a handful of would-be assassins, take the Aston Martin for a zigzagging spin around Monte Carlo and then seduce his glamorous accomplice.

Then, the dry maraca burst of a martini being shaken clatters across the room. ‘That sounds promising,’ Claire says brightly. I handle the sarcasm in our marriage.

It’d been a restorative escape from the week and into the thoughts of each other, both considered and spontaneous — a shared refuge. Hindley Street is Adelaide’s most scandalous address — Powderfinger even opened The Internationalist with a song named for it. This trodden place keeps remaking itself, and Claire found an untainted nook in which we could fleetingly pause time.

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Cricket by the Sea

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A white picket fence encircles Point Lonsdale Oval, lending the ground an idyllic English geometry. It’s Saturday afternoon and, lured by a cricket match, I drive in and park by the mid-wicket boundary. Snatching ten minutes to take in a genteel encounter — any venue and contest will do. The trend for picket fences is heartening; simple wooden slats bring an elegance to our increasingly coarse world. They also suggest quiet expectations of courteous behaviour for both players and spectators.

I love country cricket but understand many find it incomprehensible. As a sporting contest it is often ritualised rather than wild battle. To the uninitiated, nothing appears to be happening on the field, but in truth everything is transpiring with absorbing compulsion. It’s a psychological feast of anticipation and patience, punctuated by staccato bursts of movement — then lengthy, enigmatic lulls.

Bowling and fielding, characterised by a cheerful mellowness, suggest this is a B- or C-grade fixture, a suspicion confirmed by the participants — grey-haired and slower of limb. Of course, the chubbiest chap keeps wicket, and he’s unexpectedly spritely, crouching behind the stumps before bouncing in to scoop up the return throws. His nickname is surely Nugget.

The scrubby surrounds are unmistakably coastal Australia, and the scene reminds me of the one time I played cricket by the sea. This was at Elliston, after a Friday night at the Port Kenny pub with my Wudinna CC teammates. The next morning, a tinny putted out into the bay and we went fishing — Stink, Ning, Jock, Snook, Chess and me, crowded onto the tiny deck — during which the bird’s nest I made of my line earned me a new nickname: Tangles, in honour of the beloved Max Walker. Winning late in the day, I recall hearing the crashing surf in sonic contrast to the dusty breezes and magpie warbles of landlocked Kapunda.

Gazing again at those sharing the patchy grass and leisurely privilege, I think of the joyous belonging cricket clubs can gift their members. It’s only partly about what happens on the field; the spirited and forgettable exchanges at training and in the clubrooms matter just as much. Bumping into your teammate — the mechanic — outside the post office on a Tuesday lunch confirms this bond.

On Point Lonsdale Oval, the placid medium-pacer saunters in and overpitches just enough on a decent line. Seagulls dance on the salty air as the batsman steps into an off drive, but it rambles over the rough turf straight to a fielder and I hear the shout of, ‘No!’ This is representative of the even contest during my stay: no wickets or chances, but no boundaries either — just a handful of modest scoring shots. Was it dull? No. Utterly engrossing and healthily diverting.

Claire is shortly due on stage at the Queenscliff Music Festival, so after half a dozen overs I turn the key in the ignition. This brief cricket excursion has returned me, happily, to the languid Saturdays of my youth.

2

Five Sentences, in Reverse Chronological Order, about the Queen’s Head

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Vamoosing from our front-bar nook, we carry the lamentable lettuce cups out with us and I then drop Claire at the Gov, where she’s interpreting for Josh Pyke, who — recalling what she told him at his gig in April — offers a heart-swelling shout-out about our wedding and the role played in it by his exquisite song Sew Your Name.

Pausing our celebration amidst the pubbish murmurings, Claire does a gallery walk around the bar studying the sepia Adelaide Oval Test-cricket photos, and as we speculate about life a century ago for these bowler-hatted, stern-faced types, I try to orient the oval for her by pointing at one grainy image and saying ‘That’s north,’ which proves unhelpful when she replies, allegedly, ‘You know I find compass references troublesome.’

Devolving ever deeper into late-capitalism, a telling symbol of this is that the only youngsters in pubs are often those pulling the beers; tonight is no exception, though our barkeep is convivial as we order a bowl of wedges — gladdening and homely in their aroma — and a delicious-sounding plate of lettuce cups.

Returning bar-side, the aroma of deep-fried calamari wafting past our noses, we claim our second and final drinks — Claire’s now-established espresso martini and my Pale Ale — and linger over them at a secluded table beside the — is November 14 premature? — Christmas tree; before this, we’d opened our night with a white wine and a pint of Heineken, which I always forget is essentially European VB, though without its charismatic nose or middle-palate length.

Ambling through the brisk air into the Queen’s Head (my choice for this month) past a footpath table of chaps relaxed into their late-Friday residency, having parked our RAV4 on gently undulating, village-like Kermode Street after a ten-minute automotive crawl up Montefiore Hill — itself preceded by collecting Claire from the ghostly TAFE on Light Square — we begin the sixtieth edition of Mystery Pub.

2

As Childhood Slipped Away

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You’re among the last of the 250-odd students to cross the stage. It’s the 2025 Brighton Secondary School valedictory event and I’m in Section E of the Adelaide Entertainment Centre. Adjusting my suit jacket, I browse about at the parents, siblings, and grandparents. Cologne pushes at me from a neighbouring dad. The jazz ensemble now hushes and we’re ready.

Our social contract is that we wait good-naturedly for our child to have their moment and be formally farewelled. I elect to clap each graduate while surveying their year 8 and year 12 photos, projected onto twin screens.

The sudden ruthless truth hit me this morning as I drove down Port Road, past the Entertainment Centre and saw the ceremony advertised on the colossal display. The height of the digital lettering was striking and the idea of you finishing school and entering the adult world became suddenly tangible and undeniable.

A long hour into the presentations and I’m impatient to see you. I repeatedly glance to the right of stage, hoping to spy you into the theatrical dark, searching for your blonde mop. But the unbroken procession of students persists.

Finally, your home group is announced. I can just see you in the wings: tall, cheerful, casual. Your turn approaches. An amplified voice says, ‘Alex Randall.’

I watch from Section E. Entering the stage, your long legs are relaxed and you’re respectfully laconic. I note that you’re purposeful but not panicked, in reaching centerstage. Years of drama productions have taught you to luxuriate in this, to add an extra beat. As a school student, it’s your final bow.

Now firmly under the spotlight, you arrive alongside the principal, Mr. Lunniss, and pause, beaming your easy smile. You almost look like you’ve just been told a small (Dad) joke and find it bemusing. Next to the angular, retiring educator, you establish your affable presence on the stage. There’s no arrogance in your stance, only a natural, infectious joy.

As you take your souvenirs — a navy-blue book and programme — my evening’s most poignant moment arrives. As your Dad, sitting in the vast auditorium, it sparks an inner welling and a hot tear for it shows heartening regard, and gratitude. It’s a hope-inspiring gesture, likely undetected by most in the audience, on this evening of goodbyes and celebrations.

You’ve told me you’ve no relationship with the principal and this is better than you being marched habitually into his office where he peers over his glasses and despairingly asks, ‘What have you done now, Randall?’ Instead, the reality is far more gracious. Beneath the arena lights I’m thrilled when Mr. Lunniss hands you the official gift of school stationery and you nod acknowledgment at him.

I instantly recognise this voluntarily offered thankfulness as a buoyant symbol. It’s gladdening. I wish for a dazzling adulthood in which you possess a sophisticated grasp of the silent machinery required to make life bend to your happy will.

Such was the equivalence that I could imagine you and the principal at a front bar: ‘Alex, your shout.’ It’s also, any witness would attest, a courteous transaction between two men — but with it away rushes the last of your childhood and in Section E, I’m an anonymous, hushed spectator.

The entire village has invested in you Alex, and some now watched on and could smile to themselves at the illuminating role they’d performed, the kindnesses they often extended, the gentle hands placed on your shoulder. It’s been an acutely elevating instance — a bright, cloudless dawn. A single, fleeting nod on a wide stage — and just like that, your school years are done.

0

The Light Around Dad’s 82nd Birthday

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Those of us who drink red raised a glass to our patriarch. We enjoyed a glug of the 2006 Rockford’s Basket Press Shiraz — purple, velvety, immediately seductive. Dad, Claire, my nephew Mitchell, his girlfriend Alisha, and my son Alex all nodded their approval as Sunday lunch settled in with warm ease.

Under my sister Jill’s veranda, the cold November rain pushed in rudely — the kind that makes you reconsider going to the footy. We traded stories of Balinese dangers with cobras and scooters (Claire and me, imperilled), Kuta escapades (my cousin Ben, curious) and brazen prostitutes (Dad and Mum and my Uncle John and Aunty Liz, bemused).

Then, naturally, we drifted to Kapunda stories: antics in adolescent cars, the burning rubber of Uncle John’s Ford Zephyr (allegedly), and my HQ Holden versus the high-school fence (guilty, Your Honour). The following morning, I had to front, in glum succession, the school headmaster, the local Senior Sergeant, and of course Mum and Dad. All before breakfast.

A tickled Alex outlined his gap-year plans — Europe and the Stans: Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan. I was suddenly distraught. Here was aural proof that he would soon be in the other hemisphere, an alien time zone, and forever vanished into adulthood.

Lunch was superb: lamb shoulder, roast chicken, and salads — vermicelli my standout — all made by Jill, a self-declared lover of cooking. She finished with a classic country pavlova piled with whipped cream and strawberries.

Still around the table, we sang Happy Birthday to Dad. I now remember that Americans don’t do the Jolly Good Fellow coda, which has always struck me as the spirited, fun bit of the tradition — the tune barrelling home, people lifting their volume and arm-swinging gusto. Ideal for the tone-deaf like me.

The previous afternoon, I’d gone in search of a shiraz, declaring that Dad’s birthday deserved a generous red and wandering the aisles of Dan’s, I spied some plonk that reminded me of an ageing bottle on the rack in the spare room. With that I left the store empty-handed, rushed home, rescued the dusty Basket Press Shiraz, and told Claire, ‘I was keeping it for a big occasion — and surely Sunday qualifies.’

It was instantly the best glass of wine I’ve ever had — and I hope everyone else felt the same. Context is everything, and it was superior to the Grange I’ve tasted on a couple of occasions. I reckon past a certain age, birthdays narrow into the things that matter: the closest people, engaging wine and food, and old stories we’ve all heard before — and will gladly recite again, with delighted ritual, next year.