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Mystery Pub — The Maid Who Lost Her Magpie

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Where could they sit?

Michael had booked a beer garden table at the Maid and Magpie hotel. However, it was now formally known as The Maid. Walking around the beer garden there was no booking for them. There was also not a single naughty puppy in sight. Back inside they continued to search for their booking.

Finally, a pretty table tile announced his name, but it was in the restaurant. With no customers or music or staff it was like a cemetery. It would not do. Claire then said, ‘Let’s look over there!’

They saw a curious pot. It was green and nice to look at.

Next, they went past a door. It was a handsome old door. Michael said, ‘I wonder where this door could lead?’

Claire said, ‘Maybe a dragon lives upstairs? Or an old witch?’

Michael replied, ‘Ooh, yes. There could be something dangerous.’

Claire said, ‘It’d only be a form of safe danger for we’re in a Little Golden Book. It wouldn’t be a real, psychologically menacing threat. Just something to reward our burgeoning curiosity.’

Then, they saw a firewood nook. It was full of the nicest firewood they had ever seen.

It was most exciting for firewood meant a fireplace. Claire and Michael loved nothing more than a pub fireplace by which they could sit with their refreshments and speak of music and theatre and assorted ephemera.

‘Where can the fireplace be?’ Claire asked.

Michael urged, ‘Let’s look over there!’

Off they ran like the naughty puppy absent from the opening paragraph. Claire and Michael were naughty because they were running inside a pub. They went here and there. Where was the fireplace? The innkeeper was playing golf so didn’t yell at them, ‘Out! Out! Out!’

Standing with hands on hips, Claire said crossly, ‘We’ve looked everywhere in this pub. There is no fireplace.’

Michael said, ‘In this inescapably cynical world, even the humble pub-goer is now seduced with promises like those made by captivating firewood nooks, only for these to be empty and cruel gestures.’

‘Late-capitalism,’ Claire noted, wearily.

Trying desperately to abandon their mounting disappointment, they located a table in the front bar, purchased wine and beer from the vague and disinterested bar worker, and sat among the faintly gruff men.

While Claire was busy, Michael stared at the pub carpet. What a queer thing it is, he thought. Tradition decrees that pub carpet can’t be plain for it must be patterned. And it must be garish and utterly unlike anything you’d have in your own home. It must also camouflage stains while remaining instantly forgettable for the patron. Why, he thought, there’s probably an Associate Professor of Pub Carpet Design somewhere like a Gold Coast university.

What a number of discoveries they were making!

Now, Mystery Pub tradition allowed for Claire to have an espresso martini. It was foamy and creamy and inviting as if it were made by Aunt Fanny from The Famous Five. Technically, an Enid Blyton character such as Aunt Fanny doesn’t belong in a Little Golden Book but it fits the 1950s aesthetic and trivial earnestness of this story, so we’ll tolerate this intertextuality.

‘I do wish there were a spoon for me to scoop up this delicious coffee-flavoured foam.’ Claire asked hopefully.

They looked over at the bar staff blinking at their phones and talking distractedly at, rather than with each other. ‘Let’s look over there!’ Claire and Michael chorused.

But instantly they knew the effort of speaking with the bar staff might not be rewarded for they remembered the firewood and then they also remembered their booking, made sweetly with good faith but ignored by an anonymous robot.

Suddenly Michael said, ‘I know,’ grabbing a fork from the cutlery box.

‘Here! Use this.’

And so, Claire did!

Later, they spoke again of how the pub was previously called The Maid and Magpie but despite being known colloquially as The Maid for many years, the management had surrendered to populist whim, and it was now officially named this. It was disappointingly reductive.

The magpie was gone.

Claire and Michael further speculated upon that their central misunderstanding. They decided that renovations and attendant name changes connect to soulless, charisma-free venues in which appearance is paramount but warmth and authentic character are gloomily deficient.

A magpie lover, Claire, wondered sadly, ‘So The Maid and Magpie has lost its magpie. I can only hope it’s flown to somewhere nice and with less shallow architecture.’

Michael nodded.

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Shadows and Light at Kapunda High

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Kapunda High boasts some mightily impressive Moreton Bay Figs. They are central to the school’s landscape. With their wide limbs, they offer timeless beauty and reassurance.

After the ceremony and having taken a tour of the reopened building, I’m standing by the steps with Paul and Kerry McCarthy. We’re talking about the old Moreton Bay Fig which has stood by the side of Eringa for numerous decades and provides ample shade across the adjoining lawn. It’s a most magnificent specimen.

Kerry says, ‘On the night of the fire, Paul and I were worried we’d lose this tree too.’ I glance over at it again, its shadows spreading across the lush grass.

I reply, ‘Forget Adelaide Oval’s Moreton Bay Figs, this one here is my favourite tree, anywhere.’

Kerry nods and continues, ‘Yes, it’s mine too.’

If quizzed I’m sure it’d be the favourite of many who attended Kapunda High including a number who’re here this afternoon.

*

Lady Kidman’s Bedroom looks tiny. Despite being the boudoir of Isabel or Bel as she was also known, it’s about the size of similar rooms in modern homes. It’s now an office but when I was a pupil here it was a classroom and I remember History and Geography classes in it. With less than two hundred students, our classes were always small, but I still wonder how we squeezed in here. As a prefect, I slept on the floor when helping with the year 8 induction overnight stay.

There’s about six of us in there having paused our self-guided tour and it’s crowded. Why do familiar places from our youth shrink as we age? Greg Mickan and Phil Voumard share some stories from their time in this very room. I can’t repeat them here as they both might get a (significant) retrospective suspension (and caning)! Memory and its constant companion, affection, have demanded our attendance today.

*

My tour first takes me to what is now the museum. It’s downstairs and entry is gained by a long ramp. For me however, it’ll always be the Matric Centre and much of our learning, fun, and friendships happened in this subterranean space.

Descending through the doors, I immediately look right. It’s empty now but back then there was a row of carrel desks. There were only about a dozen of us in Year 12 and so we each had our own spot. In my row was Chris Rohde and Peter Davidson, and I was squeezed into the corner.

During those rare silent and secluded moments, it’s where I read and was devastated by George Orwell’s 1984 — set, as it was, just a single year in my future. On Friday afternoons we started our weekends with a study period and looking through the museum, I can hear the powerful voice of our beloved class teacher, Michael Krips. Almost every week he’d nobly remind us, ‘It’s not a half hour pack-up!’

*

Making my way to the book stand I buy a copy of From The Ruins Eringa Rises. It looks (and is) great having been written and compiled by local icons Macca, Danny Menzel, and Anne Hornsey.

Groups are mingling on the lawns in the fading light. I shake hands with many of my teachers including Geoff Schell and Robin Burgess. Robin makes his now customary remark to me that given I’ve been allowed into the event, ‘Security can’t be too flash.’ I see former colleagues too and some more Mickans. In the Moreton Bay Fig shade, Andrew Hayward and I discuss the general, buoyant state of life in Kapunda and anticipate a beer together, soon.

I take a few moments to think about the day here in 2021, when Claire and I were married on this treasured lawn.

*

Strolling back to my car, parked on West Terrace, I pause and turn around. Fittingly, the warm sun streams in across Eringa and its inviting gardens. The building is handsome and quietly proud. My head’s buzzing with stories and faces and recollections.

Squinting at the facade, it looks as it always did, like the fire never happened. Surely, this means the restoration is a dazzling success.

With this, Kapunda and its high school feel exactly as they should.

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Goolwa Heritage Pies and Pastries — Where you’ve been lately?

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If something good happens twice in my sometimes ridiculous but mostly effervescent world, I declare it a tradition. Claire finds this bemusing.

The latest is Sunday afternoons when I put on an upbeat vinyl album like Breakfast in America by Supertramp. It now serves as pre-match entertainment before 5.27pm, when we settle in with refreshments — white wine for Claire, a Coopers Sparkling Ale for me — to watch Hello SA, the local travel program and unabashed advertorial.

The hosts gallop about assorted wineries, restaurants, and other attractions prior to gesticulating frantically behind a cafe table groaning with gloriously calorific foodstuffs. Yes, of course, this is pizza and burger porn.

My biggest ritual of all is gathering up traditions like the type of tatty hoarder A Current Affair still airs twice a week.

Among my most treasured traditions is my annual writing retreat to Port Elliot.

Driving down to the Fleurieu I listen to Eagles Live. It transports me back to my teenage years of wonder and despair. It’s possible that the band members weren’t the nicest chaps with whom you could share a Bud Light (Lite), but they could certainly write and perform a tune.

Their song New Kid in Town is exquisitely pretty. Someone once asked Glenn Frey why he didn’t sing lead vocals more often. He replied, ‘Because we’ve got Don Henley in the band.’ Fair answer but Frey’s execution on this song is masterful. I hear the hurt and endless regret in his voice. We’ve all been discarded when that new kid in town arrives.

While this trip is itself a tradition, numerous traditions unfold inside my four-day escape. Tonight, after an afternoon of writing I’ll pop down the Royal Family Hotel for exactly two pale ales. These are my favourite pints all year. Weather allowing, I’ll sit in the beer garden under the massive pines and contemplate my twinkling fortune.

The best tradition is Friday at 5.08pm when I collect Claire from the LinkSA 1251 bus.

*

En route, I visit a new bakery and buy a standard sausage roll, gobble it, and then on this very platform, provide my colossally uninformed opinion. As Victor Lewis-Smith nearly asked in his magnificent restaurant reviews, ‘What made me happy to eat this sausage roll?’

Here we go.

I’m a man of limited formal faith but I do adhere to a rigorous regime regarding tomatoes. Soup? Yes. Sauce on a BBQ sausage? Yes? But that’s it. No tomato in a toasted sandwich or a tossed feckin’ salad etc. Sliding my sausage roll from its brown paper bag, my eye caught the insulting reddish smear instantly.

Tomato sauce staining the pastry. My pastry. Not a tiny dot. A thumb-nail sized, bloody looking gobby, like a Ghostbusters ectoplasm.

My choice was clear. Private pain or public humiliation?

‘Excuse me, miss but my sausage roll has been poisoned. No, it has. Can you see the sauce? No, right here. At no point did I or would I ever order sauce on my baked good. Correct. Thank you. It’s sort of a pact between me and my minor god. I can’t deviate from this. Sorry, but I demand satisfaction.’

This was the speech I didn’t make. I went for private pain, of course, so I shut my eyes tight, exhaled like a Bond villain, and bit, decisively, into the roll, stupid sauce and all.

I survived and recovered briskly for which I was uproariously happy. The non-stained segment of my lunch was wholly adequate and understated like the off-spin bowling of Tim May. Eating this food, I wondered if the flavour was gravely minimal, but I determined that it was correctly engaging.

With Supertramp and the Eagles waiting uncomplainingly in my car, I pushed back through the bakery door.

2

Mystery Pub at Canopy Bar — Waterloo Sunset’s Fine

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Arrival: 4.56pm

First drinks: MINISTRY OF BEER PALE ALE Easy drinking pale. Pineapple, citrus with a lightly hopped and pleasantly bitter finish. BAROSSA VALLEY, SA – 4.6%

2026 Geoff Weaver SAUVIGNON BLANC

Second (and final) drinks: LOBETHAL BIERHAUS BRITISH INDIA PALE ALE Richer in body and piney. Lighter notes of malt with some toffee and fresh bitterness. LOBETHAL, SA – 5.9%

ESPRESSO MARTINI Cafeto, Plantation Dark, Cacao, Coffee, Salt

Interior Design: no candles, but table lamps. Natural vegetation including vines and ferns. Booths, high and low tables

A painfully proximate table of middle-aged women who’re on their third drink and are seemingly oblivious to their escalating decibel levels: tick

Playlist Highlights: Piano Man by Billy Joel. Fantastic storytelling. Rousing. Like Khe Sahn and Hotel California, a song that was great but became annoyingly ubiquitous and then, one day, I heard it as if for the first time and remembered why it endures.

Reckless by Australian Crawl. Kapunda Swimming Pool, 1983. Somebody’s radio cassette player. Towels huddled on the lawn. Bush biscuits. Enigmatic, sparse lyrics including

A Russian sub beneath the Arctic
Burke and Wills and camels
Initials in the tree

Waterloo Sunset by the Kinks. Among the most beautiful songs recorded with a gorgeous melody and lyrics that are at once fragile, sad, and hopeful. Hearing this in the Canopy Bar, Claire and I promised each other that this December we’ll walk along Victoria Embankment and out onto Waterloo Bridge, look up the Thames toward Westminster and Big Ben, and murky British winter permitting, take in the most London of sunsets.

Not ordered for dinner: FANCY VEGEMITE, COMTÉ, SCAMORZA, TRUFFLE OIL, SMOKED SALT (toasted sandwich, $13)

Departure: 5.52pm

Ordered for dinner: Medium chips from Tapleys Charcoal Chickens. Lightly salted.

Vinyl played at home: Christopher Cross (yacht rock). You know, the bloke who sang Sailing and Ride Like the Wind –

And I’ve got such a long way to go
To make it to the border of Mexico

Episodes of Escape to the Country complete before Michael fell asleep on the couch: none

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A Minute with a Magpie

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You’d returned from your Saturday walk, and I was home from parkrun. As usual, our exercise routines had kept us apart. I invited you to join me outside so we could talk of our mornings. Pulling out a chair each, we looked out over the blossoming garden you’d grown.

At ten o’clock there was a suburban ease in the air that seemed to be nature’s acknowledgment of the weekend and our common need to regenerate. Seasonal restoration was at hand too for the day was mild and the sun appeared brighter and warmer. Along with the lengthening days, we dared to imagine it was Spring’s first brief kiss.

The magpie announced itself on the fence with a warbling, happy chorus. You said, ‘Come down here, maggie.’

And she did, hopping about on the lawn, singing and pecking out worms. She continued her triumphant song and you and I listened together. Our tickets were free and we remained in our theatre seats, motionless, wishing to not frighten away the star of this little concert.

She then bounced over to the pavers and picked up some shrivelled worms. I said, ‘Those worms are like that dried stuff, what’s it called?’ Ever helpful, you replied, ‘Beef jerky.’ We both laughed, but softly.

Then another magpie landed on the lawn. And a baby, fluffy and fluttering, on the other fence. A family. The first magpie ate some more worms and I said, ‘Come on, Mum, give some to the baby’ and you suggested that if the baby was hungry, it’d soon let her know with insistent squawking. I like how you know about these things. I’m always learning from you.

Sitting still on our chairs, we kept our voices low, wanting this tiny family to feel welcome. I murmured to the birds saying, ‘If you see me running down the street, don’t swoop me. Remember, we’ve been kind to you.’ The magpies rightfully ignored my silly commentary.

Their voices, peaceful visitation, and the flooding golden light made for a cathedral calm. In you, they recognised an admirer and a welcoming host. Those few minutes had been meditative and promising. I was grateful.

Then they flew away. We hoped they’d return to our garden.

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Mystery Pub at Hotel Panorama — Double Helix in the Sky Tonight

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The neon sign on Goodwood Road has Vintage Vegas vibes. Its glow evokes Sinatra, the Sands, and the faded 1950s. As such it promises the clientele they’ll enjoy a glamorous experience. Will an otherworldly Dean Martin tend the door with white-gloved hands and a toothy smile?

Hotel Panorama opened on June 17. In an era where pubs are routinely demolished or heartlessly converted into student housing, how often do we actually get to welcome a new inn? It’s particularly delightful because this part of Adelaide has long been that most dreadful of urban disasters: the pub desert.

With its foothills position and five-story tower, there are transfixing views from the rooftop bar, Wonderland, towards the CBD. It is the city seen from the south and, while its skyline is modest, it heartens Claire and me. It’s no Manhattan but we know it so well, like an ageing uncle. Peering over to our beloved metropolis, I consider how it could easily pass for a city in the American Midwest or Germany.

Claire has an Alpha Box and Dice Tarot Pinot Grigio while I opt for the reassurance of a Coopers Pale Ale. Our setting allows for wintry sun, and it courses across the gulf, and the western suburbs, in through the rooftop windows and finally out from the hoppy prism of my ale glass.

We begin our gentle interrogation of the week’s minor triumphs and skirmishes. At five bells, beer, golden light and a smiling wife all make for a picturesque scene.

The resident DJ is magicking that endless Friday DJ mix which manages to be both likeable yet also immediately forgettable. This, I guess, is the trick. I’m drawn in when the following chorus drops into the room-

Oh, thunder only happens when it’s raining
Players only love you when they’re playing

Why is this 70s song, ‘Dreams’ now everywhere? Fleetwood Mac is terrific but so much of the contemporary cultural machinery operates beyond my understanding. Is this a sonic version of frequency illusion or the Baader–Meinhof phenomenon but for old soft rock tunes?

Continuing this theme, Claire says, ‘I’d never heard the saying, springing for tickets and then I heard it twice in a couple days.’ Baader–Meinhof again, friends. Later, Steely Dan liquifies in my ears. They, too, are lurking.

As dark rises from the July soil, the pine trees of Largs Bay and Semaphore curve along the becalmed gulf. Twin stars appear as faint blurs. Through the rectangle of night sky planes land and take off in Kubrick silence. On our window table is a small lamp which generates, for an Adelaide venue, an enticing intimacy that Melbourne pubs seem to better execute.

The toilet/bathroom/restroom/dunny also offers a view over the city through colossal windows, though it’s not quite a poo with a view. But there’s burgundy wallpaper of a fantastical bent that might be categorised as safari chic. A jungle of giraffes and absurd elephants in Adelaide’s suburbs? It’s entirely at odds with what we’ve experienced in this sparkling new boozer, and I’m sure that this is the point. Perhaps globalisation has shrunk our world so arrestingly that decontextualization has become one of the last reliable forms of surprise.

I finish my pee and then, reunited in the lift, we fall back to earth, safely.

0

Glenelg v Eagles — Bird Flu, Kylian Mbappé, and the Number Eight

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Five minutes into Saturday’s match against the Eagles, a quick Hosie kick to the square spilled loose. The ball wobbled forward, bouncing here and there until Archie Lovelock suddenly worked himself free and flung a boot at the Sherrin, which obliged by skidding through for the afternoon’s first goal.

It was neat and one of those great moments when something jubilant is manufactured from very little. The soccer goal didn’t possess the explosive power of a World Cup strike by France’s Kylian Mbappé, but it did set an expectant, excitable tone for the match.

We were on our way.

*

Today’s episode, as Sesame Street still announces, was brought to you by the number eight. It was Glenelg’s eighth successive win. We’re assured of playing in a club record eighth straight finals series and our number 8, Corey Lyon, is having another terrific season. He’s seventh — not eighth — on the SANFL disposals list and ninth for inside 50’s with 65 so far in 2026.

When our number 8 bursts from the pack or is in space with the ball, I simultaneously relax because I know he’ll do something constructive with it while I also become excited by everything promised as he streams through the centre.

Number 8 will be a massive influence next month as we hunt for, you guessed it, premiership number eight.

*

The Eagles began their year well, but it was their turn to be raided by the Mid- Season Draft.

MSD. It even sounds like something nasty you’d rather not catch.

They lost three handy footballers and they’ve spiralled since. When Jimmy Rowe miskicked a gettable shot on goal on the fifty-metre arc near us, someone asked, ‘Hey Jimmy! Are you sure you’re not an Eagle with bird flu?’

*

Next weekend we host Central District at the decidedly curious time of 1.10pm. I don’t think it’s the televised game, and there doesn’t appear to be another fixture before or afterwards, so I’m at a loss. Is there a secret Monster Trucks event scheduled after the final siren? Either way, it’s a lunchtime start, so the hot dog vendors should be delighted!

*

With Lachie Hosie now having slotted 58 majors thus far — and with a few more bags to come — we’ve heard ‘My Way’ by Limp Bizkit blasting out many times across the Bay Oval. I recently learned that the goal celebration song of choice for GWS forward Jake Stringer is Shania Twain’s ‘Man! I Feel Like a Woman!’ I’m unsure if this is funny or strange or both.

Regardless, bring on Saturday — and hopefully another half a dozen blasts of Fred Durst.

4

The Best Beer I Ever Had #7 — The Prince of Wales, Kapunda, 8.11pm

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I loved living in Kimba, but after five weeks without leaving its tiny township, I was beginning to feel claustrophobic.

We’d even played every February cricket match in town. I hadn’t been home to Kapunda since Christmas; it was time.

I needed some restoring.

At lunch on Friday, I filled the petrol tank at Maurie and Clappy’s roadhouse on the outskirts of Kimba. Back at school, I parked my car facing Highway 1.

A siren finished the week’s last lesson, and I sprinted for my Nissan Exa — a most ridiculous vehicle, but fun to drive. Pushing in a Skyhooks cassette, I cranked up the volume. It was brutally hot and the paddocks were brown and barren. Decent rain was months away.

Within an hour, I was whizzing past Iron Knob. Roger Hansberry’s son Paul once bought, from its roadhouse, a tank top emblazoned with Greetings from Iron Knob. It may have been Hypercolour. He wore it when we were in Las Vegas. I think the locals were too scared to ask. Even in Vegas, some topics are taboo.

Port Augusta is on the gulf but somehow still simmering and oven-like. The ocean offers it no earthly relief. I steered over what’d eventually become the Joy Baluch Bridge. As you drove over it, I’m sure it’d often swear at you. Just like Joy.

Past Warnertown, Crystal Brook, and then Gulnare. I called into the pub there once but not tonight. There’re three utes out front. Seven o’clock already.

Clare Valley.

It’s hilly now and my journey’s more laborious. Although it’s scratchy, I can get Adelaide radio now, so I find Triple J and say farewell to 5AU and its ads for chicken shops and local retailers — Thinking of new tyres? Come say hello to Wayne and Sue…

Rhynie. Alas another country pub that’s gone and with less chance of resurrection than a Betamax VCR. Sweep around Giles Corner — easing around this bend always meant home was close.

And then through Tarlee. The searing sun is low in the sky now, but I glance over at Tarlee Oval where old Kapunda mate Davo dropped a simple catch when a bloke had just got in. By mid-afternoon he’d made 295.

Bounding past The Pines. On our year 9 camp we spent the last night there. A whole week of hiking and no showers! Many visits to this reserve since, often around a winter’s fire, a bushy. Almost home.

I’m on Clare Road. The high school’s on my left, part way up Gundry’s Hill while Dutton Park’s to the right, asleep behind the rows of trees.

Finally, Kapunda.

By the pub a dozen or so cars are lined up on Mildred Street. I’ve driven four and a half hours, evading wildlife and berserk truckies like the faceless one in Spielberg’s Duel. Friday-weary, I tumble into the Prince of Wales front bar at 8.11pm.

‘Hello West Coast smack-head,’ greets mine host. ‘Gee, you’re getting fat, Mickey.’ Puffa continues. ‘Are you still driving that dopey sports car?’

This is what I came for.

Outside, the sun now sinks below the horizon. Familiar faces surround me. A one-day cricket match is on the TV above the bar. The sound’s turned down and the Waugh brothers are batting. Fresh from the small oven near the till I smell a toasted ham and cheese sandwich. A game of spoofy is underway, clenched fists thrust into a circle. Hollering erupts from them.

Soon enough, the old stories will be told again.

With a flick of a beer tap, Puffa streams the amber into a schooner glass. I take in this snug, unremarkable country room. It understands who I am. Nothing has changed. That’s precisely why I’m here. I slide a five-dollar note onto the bar towel.

The first mouthful tastes exactly like home.

0

Things I Like (2026)

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Adjusting the seat and side mirrors on a hire car ahead of the drive from Tullamarine to the Queenscliff Music Festival

Side 2 of the compilation album Whopper: Get Dancin’ / Shame Shame Shame / The Hustle / Up In A Puff Of Smoke / Jive Talkin’

The community library, a house-shaped wooden cabinet mounted on a post, at the Corny Point Cricket Club gate

The Doors’ ‘Light My Fire’ and its three-and-a-half-minute organ and guitar solo

Finding the chocolate and note Claire’s hidden in my lunch

Arriving in Athens’ Syntagma Square following a 57-hour journey through Melbourne, Beijing, and Istanbul

A $10 Op Shop shirt

The Barry Jarman Stand at Woodville Oval

Sunset overlooking Santorini’s caldera

Listening to David Gray’s hymnal White Ladder album on a Sunday morning

Running through Palermo’s Quattro Canti wearing my Glenelg guernsey and hearing someone yell out, ‘Go, Tigers!’

Sausage, white bread, barbeque sauce

The introduction to ABC radio’s Conversations and it being someone I’ve never heard of

Running at midday along Glenelg North esplanade through a sea fog

Peter Buck’s banjo on the REM song, ‘Electrolite’

Buying Alex his first (legal) pint in the Broady beer garden

The massive Beijing Airport billboard for Grange Hermitage

Every Easter Sunday at the Wheaty, hearing my brother-in-law’s band, Don Morrison’s Raging Thirst, play ‘Grand Junction Road’

A banana on my drive to the Christie’s Beach parkrun

The Season by Helen Garner

Thinking about Trafalgar Square, Hyde Park, and St John’s Wood, ahead of our London visit this Christmas

The cowbell on Grover Washington Jr’s ‘The Two of Us’

Being in our backyard and hearing the siren from Glenelg Oval

Nearly tripping over a clump of lava during the Mt Etna parkrun

Cornflake biscuit at The Broadway Kiosk, Wednesday afternoons

Alex and Max getting me Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde as a birthday gift

Italy’s three-wheeled truck, the Piaggio Ape

Claire telling me her ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ story

The Rawady’s Deli mural in Kapunda

A bottle of 2006 Rockford Basket Press Shiraz for Dad’s recent birthday

The game of squash in Ian McEwan’s novel, Saturday

Vividly coloured bottles lining the wall in Athens’ Brettos bar

Feeling the bass guitar growl through the speakers during ‘Sukie in the Graveyard’ at Belle and Sebastian’s Adelaide show

Steering over the River Light just south of Kapunda and feeling nostalgic and happy that I’m home

A Carlsberg Elephant beer (7.2%) with old Kimba friends

The Sound of Muesli on 3D Radio, featuring fellow Unley Jets Footy club alumnus, Pete Wilson

The yellow and green dome of Palermo’s Church of San Giuseppe dei Padri Teatini

A clear and warm evening for Antigone at the Greek Theatre in Syracuse on Sicily

A half-time pasty from Snout’s bar at Glenelg Oval

John Doyle (Rampaging Roy Slaven) picking up Claire’s hat for her when it blew off on Balmain’s Darling Street and he had that knowing twinkle in his eye

The scene in Song Sung Blue when Mike and Claire are first rehearsing and she plays the piano line of ‘Cherry Cherry’

The warmth of the old floorboards in the front bar of Port Elliot’s Royal Family pub

Watching Claire interpret Pulp’s ‘Common People’ in front of Elder Park’s sea of people

Max completing his first three-point turn

Tim Lane opening the telecast commentary of summer’s very first session of Test cricket

Just avoiding a cobra on our Balinese scooter

Footy Almanac lunches in Geelong

During ‘Ol ’55’ by the Eagles when Don Henley and Glenn Frey harmonise on ‘Now, the sun’s coming up/ I’m riding with Lady Luck/ freeway, cars and trucks’

Drifting about in the Corny Point shallows with Claire

This December, stepping into The Coach and Horses, in London’s Soho for a Stella

The Waifs inviting their interpreter (Claire) onstage

Stumbling across a country cricket match, complete with white picket fence

An annual winter lunch with Kapunda boys in the Barossa’s finest pub, the Greenock

Grand Final week

0

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.

*

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.

*

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.

*

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.

*

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?

*

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.

*

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.

2

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.

2

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.