Category Archives: growing up

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Spag Bog at The Bot: A Coopers Botanic Ale Tale

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With Coopers announcing that their newborn Botanic Ale is available for a strictly limited time, the following commentary is both festive proclamation and premature eulogy.

However, the phrase, ‘limited time’ makes me think of the Rolling Stones and how more than once Mick asserted, ‘I’d rather be dead than singing ‘Satisfaction’ when I’m forty-five.’ Both Coopers’ XPA and Session Ale (which transmogrified into Pacific/Specific Pale Ale) were also declared momentary but are happily still happening.

Clamping my peepers on a can the pink, purple, olive, and red markings conjure a nouveau psych-rock aesthetic. It’s visually reminiscent of the swirling guitars on Tame Impala’s Innerspeaker album and this is encouraging. Beer and music can pair well.

Having gathered ingredients to make a beef curry in the slow cooker (crock pot is too 1970’s a term) I swung past the Holdy to collect my debut four-pack of Botanic Ale cans. Home, I slid them into the garage beer fridge where, aside from some understandably abandoned lolly water, they were among friends.

With its deliberate Adelaide evocations, I pondered the name Botanic. Was it named for the much-loved public gardens or the adjacent pub I often haunted on Monday nights while at uni?

To stay open late in those heady, 1980’s times, The Bot was required to serve the punters a meal so at the prescribed hour we were obligated to queue, grab a paper plate, and witness a sullen worker slop out spaghetti Bolognese or, most often, an inferior replica. It was that or go home. On occasion I even saw people eat it. Salad days, indeed.

Back to the future and just down Chief Street in Brompton sits the elegantly renovated Brickmakers Arms. Their pristine beer garden recently provided some colleagues and me a celebratory context to acknowledge a curricular writing milestone. As we all know kegged beer is king so noting Botanic Ale on tap, I waved my phone at the dinging debit box and marched outside with a frosty tumbler.

Safely on my bum with cup in claw I considered the (late) London restaurant critic Victor Lewis-Smith and his frequent use of this question in his splendid reviews: what made me pleased?

Here goes. I remember a hot Barossa afternoon when old mate Holmsey told me of a now long-forgotten European ale that, ‘wasn’t sessionable.’ I think this may be true of Botanic Ale too.

In the glass it has a brooding yet bronzed presence, and this foreshadows its hefty 5.8% engine. Turning the key, the pint was zesty and gripping, and possessed an apt sense of occasion while also being fun. It provided citrus/tropical aromatics, all in the context of presenting as a bold beer and not just a cold beer. And it does suggest a nouveau psych-rock aesthetic, so I pronounce another Coopers triumph. It’s highly worthy of a gargle.

Snare a slab if you can and consume with slow-cooked vindaloo and Tame Impala. Or at a pinch, sloppy spag bog just before midnight.

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

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

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

I feel a propulsive, rousing energy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Briefing’s done and we’re away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I take half a banana.

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Max. fourteen.

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Happy 14th Birthday!

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

the cordial is pre-made

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

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

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

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

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

cooler than a robot, older than the wolf

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

Love Dad

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Mystery and Murder in Moana

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Alex. sixteen.

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Dear Alex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Dad

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Photos both exquisite and ridiculous

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Sausage Roll Review: Tanunda Bakery and Café – Howzat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three cricket bats out of five.

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Discarded boots, our old car, and Hotel California

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Nostalgia and detachment are constantly at war.

For me, the former wins more than it should. But sometimes disinterest rears up like a startled horse and I make an utterly sensible decision.

In July of 1993 I bought a pair of boots and trudged about in them for decades, across continents. I wore them to work. I wore them to the footy. I wore them everywhere.

During recent years when they began to require frequent repairs, I determined that new soles and patched holes in the leather toes were just steps to guarantee the immortality of my beloved boots.

I’d be buried in them.

But one day in September I drove to an Op Shop on the Broadway, flipped open the collection bin lid, and deposited my boots. They’d become heavy to wear and almost curmudgeonly. I now saw them through different eyes.

Suddenly, we were done, and surgical detachment triumphed. I didn’t stare at them wistfully, shed a lonesome tear or even have a rush of cinematic vision, showing thirty years of life’s high (and low) lights of me in my boots.

I then made my way to the kiosk where I looked at the beach and sipped a cappuccino and relished the cheerful afternoon breeze.

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Claire’s car is also in its third decade. No mere toiler, it’s a treat to pilot: compact, nippy, and gently joyous. It zips along Anzac Highway like a nimble fawn.

Having done 435,000 kilometres, I’ve been wondering about the time it’ll need replacement. Looking online at the cost of similar vehicles we may need to up the insurance for it seems to be worth more than I thought. Evaluating the RAV 4’s condition has triggered some introspection and a rediscovery of personal values on longevity and utility.

But I hope we can celebrate the half a million milestone when it should get a signed telegram from the King or at least someone in the Palace who can use a pen.

I now feel refurbished sentimentality for this precious motor and its unswerving everydayness. It could star in its own Little Golden Book.

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On Boxing Day, the transformative power of objects again grabbed me. By the airport I drove past a sprawling discount shopping centre, sat fat and foolish. Cars were parked chaotically in the creek bed, nose-to-tail on the verges and, if I checked, likely on top of each other too. Instead, I went to Mr. V’s record store on Semaphore Road. He offers no festive discounts.

Exploring vinyl albums is a sentimental experience. I am returned to being a teenager and these artefacts lead to a wholly immersive bliss. While I enjoy flicking through the modern releases, I find a deeper delight at the 70’s and 80’s section where my younger self forever lives. Rationing this indulgence, I ponder purchasing one of these:

The Boys Light Up– Australian Crawl

Straight in a Gay, Gay World– Skyhooks

Place Without a Postcard– Midnight Oil.

Rather I zoom across the Pacific and buy Hotel California. It’s unstoppably captivating and I’ve always surrendered to its narrative power. Kapunda’s a long way from the Hollywood and Beverly Hills setting of these songs but my connection is strong as steel.

Listening is a cheerfully simple, analogue experience. With a crackle the needle descends on The Eagles and I’m again in a boxy Kingswood patrolling the homely streets of Kapunda. It’s the clumsy sway of the last dance at high school socials (formals or proms to some of you). It’s the boyish allure of American cityscapes.

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What to finally make of dumping my boots, refreshed appreciation for Claire’s car, and the untarnished radiance of an adolescent record? The past is seldom still, but sometimes rushes at us like a rampaging bull and leaves me standing in its dust, bewildered. I’m caught between nostalgia’s gilded cage and reality’s sharpening edges.

But I always was.

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Ripper 76 to Patsy Biscoe to The Fonz

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I bought my new turntable a house-warming gift yesterday.

Lenny’s Records on Henley Beach Road is near my work and poking through the racks, I contemplated Aja by Steely Dan and Living in the Seventies by Skyhooks before deciding on Bob Dylan’s tour de force, Blood on the Tracks. Nothing says welcome like an iconic album.

Living (mostly) alone decades previously in a farmhouse south of Wudinna, this CD was a Sunday evening ritual. With its warm songs of love and looming heartbreak, Dylan was excellent company, and offered much to ponder every rich listening.

On wintry nights I’d get the fireplace a-roarin’ and his wit and poetry were cantankerous comfort as the acoustic guitar and Minnesotan twang sprung about my big, empty home.

‘You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go’ remains an uplifting song about impending hurt and there’s gleeful despair in the verse

I’ll look for you in old Honolulu

San Francisco, Ashtabula

Yer gonna have to leave me now I know

But I’ll see you in the sky above

In the tall grass in the ones I love

Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Given the name’s lyricism, I’d like to visit Ashtabula, Ohio.

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On Thursday evening with old Kimba friends Bazz and Annie we enjoyed the world’s greatest compilation album which, of course, is Ripper 76. Among its curios is the theme song from everybody’s favourite show, Happy Days.

Over Coopers and pepperoni pizza, we spoke of this, and I mentioned how The Fonz (Henry Winkler to others) is touring Adelaide next year to promote his biography and Claire will be the Auslan interpreter. How great is this? The other day I asked, ‘Happy Days began when we were about ten. Did you ever imagine you’d work with The Fonz?’ I hope she asks who’s his preferred Tuscadero: Leather or Pinky?

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Having met Paul McCartney, the English singer Noel Gallagher from Oasis was asked how he felt and replied, ‘Macca’s a legend. It were fooking great. I mean my favourite band is Wings.’ Wednesday afternoon I popped on the triple live album, Wings Across America and loved side four’s closing track, ‘Listen to What the Man Said.’

Soldier boy kisses girl

Leaves behind a tragic world

But he won’t mind, he’s in love

And he says love is fine

It’s emblematic of McCartney’s enticing optimism and talent for a likable melody. However, Tom Scott’s soprano saxophone solo is the happy highlight, and I appreciated it soaring out across our summery garden.

My new turntable and I were getting on superbly.

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I was reassured to read that Neil Diamond was in my top five Spotify artists for 2023 along with Karen Carpenter heir apparent Weyes Blood, Lana Del Ray, The Beatles, and Belle and Sebastian. This is largely founded on Hot August Night being our Friday evening ritual (imposed by me). It’s a splendid, intensely familiar way to farewell the week and muster in the weekend.

So last night on the patio with Christmas lights twinkling and candles flickering I dropped the needle on side three (it’s good to mix it up) and its exquisite ‘Play Me’ with

You are the sun, I am the moon

You are the words, I am the tune

Play me

Of course, on the second verse Diamond sings, ‘Songs you sang to me/Songs you brang to me.’ Brang? Yet again, Claire and I had the conversation during which we agreed passionately that English is a cruel language and yes, the past tense of bring should plainly be brang.

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Late Sunday in Tanunda for a music festival, Claire and I had a brief chat with Here’s Humphrey star, retired naturopath and former deputy mayor of the Barossa, Patsy Biscoe.

It certainly was a memorable week in music.

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To Alex, on your drama performance

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Dear Alex,

Congratulations on your exceptional performance in ‘7 Minutes.’ Your portrayal was a masterclass in comedic energy as you deftly satirized a military stereotype in skillfully exploring abusive power.

The arresting facial expressions you employed provided insight into the complexities of your character, while the physicality of your performance conveyed both intimidation and deep vulnerability—a tribute to the absurdist theatre of the celebrated Irish playwright, Samuel Beckett. It was also reminiscent of Monty Python and John Cleese’s hyper-real antics.

The audience was captivated by the entrance of your character and Judd on the nuclear bomb Daisy. Your choice of the Beastie Boys’ “No Sleep til Brooklyn” as the soundtrack for this injected tremendous energy and fun into the scene. It also drew parallels to the political satire of black comedy films like Dr. Strangelove, and paid homage to its iconic figures such as Brigadier General Jack D. Ripper and Group Captain Lionel Mandrake.

The name Daisy itself evokes the Vietnam War bomb known as the Daisy Cutter and resonates with the noted 1964 US presidential campaign advertisement for Lyndon Johnson. Featuring a little girl picking the petals from a daisy and concluding with a nuclear explosion, this became a poignant symbol of how Cold War paranoia instilled fear in the collective consciousness.

The play was rich in intertextuality, drawing inspiration from the Rocky Horror Picture Show and the Planet of the Apes franchise, including the use of the infamous, ‘Doomsday Bomb.’ The narrative, with only a man and woman surviving, harked back to biblical themes of Adam and Eve, and other moments recalled Charlie Chaplin’s anti-Nazi film, The Great Dictator. The recent release, JoJo Rabbit was also conjured in addition to Austin Powers. It was a thought-provoking text, and I also really enjoyed the performances of Judd, Max, and Harriet.

The final dance-off, a delightful and entertaining spectacle, echoed iconic moments from Glee, The Office with David Brent, Grease, and Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ music video. You were great, and at no point was there any similarity to the dancing skills of your father and this is exceptionally good news for you.

As Company Bright ends for you and your classmates, this production serves to express thanks to your teachers, families, and fellow students. You now have an unbreakable bond with these people. The skills and experiences gained throughout Company Bright will undoubtedly be a magical and life-shaping asset. I’m certain you’ll look back on this with significant affection and gratitude.

Well done, Alex. I am deeply proud of the application and dedication you’ve demonstrated throughout your Company Bright career and particularly in ‘7 Minutes’ and keenly anticipate your future theatrical work in senior school and beyond.

Love Dad

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Dear Dad, on your 80th birthday

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Dear Dad

Remember the backyard at Stirling Street and that gnarly old lemon tree? Near the swing with the triangular frame? Every now and then you’d pluck one off a branch, halve it, take a bite and urge Jill and I to do the same. I’d screw up my face at a single drop, but you and Jill seemed to enjoy the taste and so keeping a safe distance, and united in our horror, Mum and I could only look on as you’d both munch a lemon like it was a lolly.

Running down the middle of the yard were parallel garden beds. They bisected the lawn and after tea with your quiet patience you’d help me with the hose and teach me to water the vegetables, saying calm, encouraging things like, ‘Make sure you give them a good drink. On a hot day would you only want half a glass of water? Well, it’s the same with the cucumbers and the tomatoes.’ And even now when watering our plants, I contemplate Dad’s wisdom, trusting I’m giving them a decent sip.

Then, there’s the image of you on your hands and knees, methodically making your way around the lawn perimeter as you edged the buffalo with those big, steel clippers. Of course, while you snipped away at the grass, Jill and I jumped on your back as if you were our very own horse. This was true multitasking, and from you I inherited my love of a manicured lawn. Out the back one-day Max gazed at me and said, ‘Dad, do you think of this lawn as your third son?’

After Kapunda Junior Colts footy games, I’d await your assessment of my performance. There was praise when I played well which was very, very often (Ed– we’re looking into this) but if needed you were direct too. One Friday night I went to a friend’s to watch a film on Betamax, possibly American Werewolf in London and the next day had a terrible game. In the changerooms your advice was clear, ‘You looked tired out there. I reckon from now on stay at home on Friday nights.’ So, I did.

Claire, you’ll be happy to know that morning before this game I called into Peter Moyle’s fruit ‘n’ veg shop and bought an apple and an orange which I ate walking along Hill Street and then winding my way down Baker Street. They didn’t help me at all. Obviously, fruit and football don’t mix.

John Schluter was my Year 6 teacher and Dad and I agree, a very smooth footballer. One spring morning JS and I had a chat at school that went like this-

JS: What do you think about your dad making a comeback to tennis?

Me: Yes, I heard. (You’re about 33 then) You don’t think he’s too old?

JS then helped me realise that how you see your parents is sometimes different to everybody else. He said, ‘Your Dad’s capable of very many things. You should remember that.’ I nodded.

You once and only once played in an oldies footy match at Dutton Park. Now, I was too young to have any real images of your playing days but was thrilled that afternoon as you kicked a bag of impressive goals. It was a clinic. Well, at least until half-time when you were injured, and for the following week hobbled around like you’d been kneecapped by the mafia. Or Mum. But I’m glad I witnessed it.

What about that summer holiday to the Berri Caravan Park? If I’m right, we came home early because it didn’t go so well. Now, I know that to this very day Jill’s sorry she caused all those fights with me. Since then, she’s grown up so much. See boys, it’s about learning.

We’ve a Barmera tradition in which every afternoon at 5pm we do a lap of Lake Bonney with a can of lemonade for the boys and for me a massively deserved Coopers Sparkling Ale. Setting off, each guesses the total number of cars we’ll pass on the Lake Lap. For example, Max might say 7, Alex, 5, Claire 3 and me, 9. Closest wins. Such excitement! And people say I don’t show the boys a good time. Thanks Mum and Dad for those Riverland trips as these gave me deep affection for the place and hopefully, I’ve passed this on.

In August, at the Tanunda Club, on the eve of the ’73 grand final reunion, Phil Jarman declared to Chris Hayward and me that for his height, Bob Randall is the best mark he’s ever seen. I was delighted to hear this yet again and Chris and I were so inspired we each had another six beers.

But among my cherished memories of you is another at Dutton Park. However, this occasion was not for footy or cricket, but the day Claire and I were married. Your speech was elegant and heartfelt and affecting. It told our story well and was about devotion and joy and family. Thank you so much for that.

Tonight’s also an occasion of devotion and joy and family so on his eightieth birthday let’s make a toast to Bob, Poppa, Dad. We love you. To lemons, lawns and love!

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Mt. Lofty Majesty: A Week with My Boys

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Travelling to Hahndorf was a calculated venture, a precious escapade that I guarded with an awareness that our shared holidays are approaching their natural quota, and every moment counted.

One sun-kissed afternoon, Alex, Max, and I ventured to the tourist park’s flickering pool. In our aquatic triangle an American football sailed across the water between us three. This game, as I’d hoped, was just a pretext to indulge in teenaged chatter. They bantered with the bustling spirit of brothers, yakking about everything and nothing, their chat interwoven with pokey jests. When these sometimes targeted me, I was delighted.

Assuming the role of invested observer, my ears were sharply tuned to the cadence of their conversation, picking out words and tones that conveyed encouragement or concern. Pleasingly, all was as expected. My seismograph remained flat.

*

Our mini-golf tournament became the ‘Tronky Cup’. A tronky, should you be unaware, is a maddeningly marketed chocolate bar from the Kinder empire and doubtless a shrieking delight for the offspring of Jayden, Kayden, and Brayden. Home on the couch recently watching these being advertised, Claire and I pondered the accompanying sense of doomed entitlement and twee allure.

While us boys battled the miniature concrete course, I recounted my whimsical and unsuccessful quest to purchase one as a vaguely amusing gift for Claire. Today’s victor, I decreed, would claim the prestigious ‘Tronky Cup.’ It was just silly enough for them to agree.

Max held up a wet finger to the breeze on the 12th before lowering himself over his putt, a tricky nine-footer. This reminded me happily of how golf and droll humour belong together, and they appeared alert to this. Despite an earlier hole-in-one, Alex met with catastrophe on the 18th hole, taking eight shots, and so I was victorious. At the German Arms a dreadful beer was a cruel celebration.

*

After a substantial schnitzel at the Oakbank pub, we went to the local school. Like many built in the 1970’s, its façade projected unwarranted smugness, the campus set back haughtily from the road. Max and I strolled to the half court, for some one-on-one basketball.

He, the young aficionado, offered a constant stream of commentary as he gracefully schooled me on the court. Our conversation spanned the entire spectrum of the sport, from his lunchtime games to his local team, district competitions, the NBL, and his revered NBA.

Max’s roster of basketball heroes is impressive (MJ easily better than Lebron, he argues), though I couldn’t help but think that, at his age, mine was filled with footballers and cricketers. His passion is a globalised, contemporaneous expression, and that’s fine with me.

*

As the sun began its descent, and we were bathed in a muted afternoon light, Alex and I circumnavigated an ornamental lake to the giant chessboard. His moves were calculated, each one deliberate and considered. An Asian boy appeared, offering unsolicited advice, but Alex played a patient, long game, demonstrating impressive self-regulation before emerging as the eventual conqueror. It was an exquisite hour. We shook hands.

The thought crossed my mind that, as parents, we secretly wish for our kids to surpass us in life’s endeavours, and now, chess and what it symbolises, is added to the lengthening list of Alex’s triumphs.

*

Our week’s zenith was a hike from Waterfall Gully to the Mount Lofty Summit, during which we were immersed in nature’s grandeur. I mused to the boys about the psychological benefit of being occasionally dwarfed by colossal creations, whether natural or human. Wise beyond his years, Max summarised with an ironic wisdom I wish I’d possessed at thirteen, ‘So you can know that you’re just one of eight billion people.’

On our taxing ascent, Alex spotted an echidna, and Max sporadically sprinted ahead, his youthful exuberance propelling him up the tough terrain. I lurched along behind. We discussed school, past trips like this one, and the significance of reaching this summit, together. Our knees and ankles were tested on the descent, but I felt gratitude for this challenging, shared excursion, undertaken with a purity of purpose.

*

Throughout our trip, the boys had accepted my itinerary with happily natured grunts and shoulder shrugs, and these became wordless affirmations of the mottled good that just might come from a holiday with their dad.

Travelling back down the freeway, we nattered about where we could go next time.

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Kapunda perspectives: Gundry’s Hill, the Duck Pond, and Dutton Park

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We’re doing a lap of Kapunda because it’s probably illegal to come home and not.

So, Lukey and I drive up to Gundry’s Hill. We’ll then swing by the Prince of Wales for a brisk beer before heading to the footy.

We hop out and wander around the grassy knoll. The sky is cloudless, and the rolling hills and crops are a reassuring green.

Glancing about I wonder does everywhere look better from a bird’s eye? Does it always provide a heavenly view? Ascending, do our earthly imperfections vanish?

What happened as we grew up in our town, nestled in that mundane, enchanted valley? Everything and nothing. It was hot and dusty, and cold and muddy. Can you be atop even the smallest hill and not become philosophical? Is private awe guaranteed?

Seeing the whole helps me remember the grainy episodes and to time-travel. I locate the spire of St Roses Catholic Church and it’s midnight mass and I’m an altar boy with lads who, for Father Moore, didn’t always behave like altar boys.

My eye finds the tiny primary school oval. I remember lunchtimes and my classmate Grant Dodman kicking what eleven-year-old me regarded as impossibly prodigious torpedo punts.

What do those from flat towns like Freeling do? How do they access a dreamy perspective?

With this elevated silence on Gundry’s Hill comes warming gratitude. I again gaze out across this modest, little town.

It becomes gentler and postcard-pretty.

*

Between the four pubs of the main street and the oval sits the Duck Pond. Although we knew the family well, nobody I know uses the official name, Davidson Reserve.

This ornamental lake was witness to youthful distraction. As with any locality on a map the geographical value is in the personal narratives.

Undertaking our compulsory tour of our hometown’s landmarks, Lukey and I pause and ponder by the water.

It’s suddenly our teenaged 1980’s.

I remember the cars we owned and can see them clustered conspiratorially by the Duck Pond. There’s Trisha’s Hillman Imp, all English and apologetic. Woodsy’s 180B in which one summer we did two ridiculous laps of Bathurst. My wife Claire’s (sadly our nuptials were a way off) little red and white mini, like an extra from Carnaby Street, London. There’s Lukey’s Alfa Romeo which aside from the then new Chinese restaurant in Nuriootpa, was the most exotic thing I knew.

The Saturday night vista is completed by a crowded used car lot of white HQ Holdens.

If I shut my eyes Stephen Trotta’s green Gemini has all the windows down and the Pioneer stereo volume up. A TDK C-90 cassette is playing. ‘US Forces’ by Midnight Oil blasts across the dark water and then we hear Mondo Rock’s moodily suggestive, ‘Come Said the Boy.’

As Dickens wrote, it was the best of times.

*

It’s a glorious late-winter’s day beneath the eucalypts at Dutton Park as the B grade footy concludes.

We’re here to see old friends and recount some well-worn tales. Woodsy, Keggy, Hollis, O’s. Fats and Chipper had called into Puffa’s. Whitey’s elsewhere.

Knots of timeworn faces huddle in front of the changerooms on the new wooden deck. Orange bunting separates us from the reunions of the 1973 B grade (Dad’s a member but can’t be here today) and Senior Colts premiers.

There’s something poetic about the equine term ‘colts’ for footy teams that’s much better than the numerical Under 17’s or Under 14’s. Looking over at the often less than sprightly reunionists someone says, ‘That’ll be us soon boys.’

There are folks I’ve not seen for decades like Kelpie Jarman and Peter Masters but the years melt away because we all lived in the same town.

I see three of the Mickan brothers in Goose, Drew, and Richie and have a quick chat with Macca. There’s much handshaking. By the canteen I bump into Fergy. In the morning he’s again off to Arkaroola and we share our experiences. Claire and I went there and to Hawker and Rawnsley Park on our honeymoon.

Early in the A grade Kapunda leads with three goals to two but then by quarter time it’s 13 majors to Angaston and not nearly enough for the Bombers. Nobody seems to mind for the air’s awash with nostalgia.

The first job, as always, when we congregate, is to organise the next event, so arrangements are made to visit Christmas Higgins’ brewery in Greenock. Before Christmas, of course.

I later learn that Morphettville race 9 is won by number 4. A seven-year-old bay gelding, its name is Angaston. And their team salutes too. By 25 goals.

But on the footy club deck it’s all chortles and familiar stories. Homecomings aren’t universally adored so I’m lucky to love these moments.

After the siren I drive south from this modest, little town.

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To Max and Alex, on basketball and theatre

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Dear Alex and Max

I write about two major achievements of which I’m tremendously proud.

Max’s basketball

I knew you loved it when you spent long hours practicing down at St. Leonard’s. However, during your first game when I saw how advanced your skills are, I was still surprised.

Defensively, you complete towering blocks, and can seriously obstruct a dribbling opponent. Like a warrior you guard the key, while snatching impressive and inspiring rebounds.

I’ve also noted your teamwork. It’s characterised by generosity, and the constant empowering of those fortunate to be in your lineup. This is true leadership.

Beyond these, you have substantial offensive abilities, and I especially like your jump shot as well as your occasional three-pointer!

You have talent.

On the court you generate good.

In some ways the most stirring moment of your career was after the tie at Morphett Vale. While it’s agreed that the referee made the wrong call, I like how you displayed an acceptance of this. Many would’ve had a meltdown, but you showed great discipline and management of the disappointment.

These are vital attributes, and I am massively proud.

I want you to let this basketball confidence spill over to school and home and influence these areas of your life.

Allow it to be a happy infection!

Alex’s acting

The instant you entered the stage during The 39 Steps as a Scottish crofter was one of my life’s outstanding events.

Your talent for projecting character both physically and vocally was instantly obvious. I loved how you demonstrated great comedic skill with your confident and remarkable accent. Although you had told me you were pleased with this, I was stunned. Your next challenge is Michael Caine!

You also exhibited that unteachable quality of presence.

Comic timing, and generosity towards your fellow performers also caught my attention.

Weeks earlier when you described aspects of the play such as breaking the fourth wall, slapstick, and how the music and lighting functioned, I was deeply proud of your insights and capacity to assuredly use this theatrical language.

I can imagine how, just like us Kapunda kids, these friends might be ones you’re seeing decades after you all leave Brighton.

Now, I also want you to utilise these considerable skills across the rest of your subjects and at home. Collaborate and give to others just like you did on stage. Apply yourself totally.

Both of you possess significant advantages. You’re clever and perceptive; you’ve ready senses of humour and show the 21st century’s key skill: critical thinking.

Dad

X

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Sausage Roll Review: Linke’s Bakehouse & Pantry, Nuriootpa

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As a Kapunda kid I had many sausage rolls in the Barossa, but never with any ceremony.

I’m quite sure today’s the first I’ve eaten while sitting down. As a nod to the late Lizzie, I use a knife and fork.

Launching into my plate of tucker, I imagine myself sipping a 2016 Louis Jadot Gevrey-Chambertin while the wait staff hover about all subservient, and if tittering into their hands is any indicator clearly thrilled to be in my lordly presence.

In Nuriootpa for work, I’m at Linke’s on Murray Street. Once just a bakery now it’s a ‘bakehouse & pantry.’ Murray Street is wide and handsome, and it’s down the road from the petite Angas Park pub, or AP, and the cavernous Vine Inn, or Slime Inn as some used to call it with gentle mockery and ultimately, generous affection.

It’s Friday lunchtime.

There’re about six exceedingly effervescent staff behind the counter dealing out the pies and lamingtons and irresistibly fat, evil buns and they’re all a-gallop. At a nearby table, a visiting American is telling some locals about his travels. He sounds Californian. All retirees, they conduct their chat with a relaxed rhythm. Lunch can go for as long as they wish. How lucky?

I’ve a cappuccino. I won’t admit it to anyone, but this new enthusiasm is really about the chocolatey foam and not the beverage. Linke’s do a most tidy one.

Researching for our upcoming Italian trip I learn that it’s impolite to have a cappuccino after 11am. I’ll observe this cultural expectation as I don’t want to be scolded by a wildly gesticulating Milanese barista. Who does?

As the great English restaurant reviewer, Victor Lewis-Smith often (nearly) asked: what made me pleased about my sausage roll?

The size was right. Too small and there’s instant, irrecoverable disappointment. Too big and I’m suspicious because, I’ll bet, the fatal tastelessness is being compensated with bulk. This, of course, is a cynical marketing strategy to make you vapidly pleased, like a breathy Kardashian.

Pastry is tricky. Flaky and dry is bad, as is oiliness. Sausage rolls in contemporary, post-pandemic Australia is a tough gig. Linke’s are fine exponents of this delicate craft.

The first incision of the knife (or tooth) is telling. You don’t want the baked good to collapse at the introduction of pressure, like Port Power, but equally you don’t want the utensil to buckle in your mit at the resistance of a house brick masquerading as food.

This goes well too.

With an underlying hint of pepper in the mince the taste is also impressive. But not too much spice given our local palates aren’t accustomed to unexpected confrontation, especially in the conservative context of a bakery set in a German-settled wine region.

It’d been most tasty.

When I was a boy, this town was hostile, largely because of the football rivalry and I was tainted. Home of the Nuriootpa Tigers, it’s now more kittenish. It’s a gentle and welcoming place.

Later, I drive around the town oval, and through the surrounding caravan park. Across the decades this has been a vivid, telling location. My memories flicker in sepia, and then in colour.