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Mystery Pub: Art and Ale in The British

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2

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

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Surf Club

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Shall we get some chips?

                Sure. Hot chips or cold chips?

                Cold.

                Why don’t we call them crisps in Australia?

                Yeah, like the Poms. Would make life easier.

                Dunno.

*

Vampire Weekend

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

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

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

*

Roast Beef

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

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

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

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

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

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Alex. sixteen.

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Dear Alex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Dad

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Photos both exquisite and ridiculous

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8

Sunday Morning in Adelaide’s Heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Mystery Pub: bung fritz, beanbags and Botched

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

Is this already a thing in Japanese train stations?

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

4

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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Phonatic Restaurant: abundant goodness inside

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Hindley Street is Adelaide’s most riotous strip, but it becomes a more peaceable thoroughfare as we mooch west over Morphett Road: tidier, quieter, yes with less excitement and also less menace. It moves from adults only to if not quite family, then at least to a parental guidance rating. Pulp Fiction to The Little Mermaid. Okay, Wreck-it Ralph. In the city there’s mild themes about.

The façade is wholly unremarkable. Under the darkening light it could be a chiropractor’s rooms. But it’s a modern Vietnamese eatery, one worthy of subsequent visits for there’s abundant goodness inside.

We’re led to our window table. There’s a Saturday, early in the new year conviviality. Lots of happy, chatty diners. Music’s playing. That I’m unable to recollect it is positive. Afterall, it’s a place for a nosebag, not doing the Nutbush. No harsh fluro lighting so bizarrely beloved of local bistros or beige tables at which I imagine poor adolescents snarling nightly at their trigonometry. A big tick there.

There’s a courtyard round the back but we resisted this as outdoor dining is a pubs-only pursuit and tonight’s dinner demands a more rousing setting.

Peering at the wine list like a bookish expert I cockily suggest a Coonawarra shiraz for my wife Claire. It’s disappointing but my imperial of pale ale is tremendous for beer is generally free of contextual interference or enhancement too. It’s utilitarian like an old-fashioned back pocket, to use an Australian Rules football simile. I’ll try to not further whine about the wine.

The Phonatic has atmospheric décor with exposed brick, wall-mounted bicycle wheels (bikes being central to the Vietnamese lifestyle) and washing machine tubs reengineered as lamps. Unlike some restaurants which want to be modern art museums this still views itself as an eatery but with engaging, industrial flourishes. Nice.

Our entrée was prawn dumplings, and this confirmed for me that dumplings are overrated. I find their universally admired charms mysterious and generally absent; they’re an empty prelude and bound for regret like watching Eurovision for the music. It’s likely just me.

However, my main course was a beef curry with sweet potato and carrot with steamed rice and it was a triumph. Regarding sweet potato: their ticket of admission is based upon charlatan misdirection. A healthy spud? Just give me a spud! Like a suspicious nightclub bouncer, I’m wary and any suggestion of trouble and I’ll heave sweet potatoes out onto the street.

Leaving my psycho-culinary rantings, the curry was flavoursome and offered tremendous gastronomic comfort. It wasn’t punitively hot for I’ll forever believe that food shouldn’t hurt me but simply contribute to my happiness. It did. As also did the accompanying warm baguette.

Claire ordered a vermicelli bun bowl with chicken which almost entirely made its way home for Sunday’s dinner. Not for the first time we (read, I) had allowed our googly eyes to preside foolishly over our innards. But it was excellent end of the weekend fare.

Restaurant meals ideally lob midway between pub nosh and the high (ridiculous) art of massive, blinding plates smeared with painterly dabs of indistinct green, unsuccessfully mimicking sustenance. Phonatic’s a fun and spirited place but the food remains the star and while the staff are welcoming, good of humour and attentive, they don’t hijack the place.

Claire’s eye for kindness noted this sign at the counter, and it provides an additional commendation

Uber eats drivers: if needed please ask for a glass of water or soft drink!

Phonatic is at 171 Hindley Street in Adelaide and is phantastic. We ate at our own expense and so should you!

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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.

*

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.

*

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.

*

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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Merry Mystery Pub-mas from Club Marion

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1. The Club Marion website declares:

Happy Hours

Sunday – Thursday’s: 4:30pm to 5:30pm

Friday’s: 4:30pm to 5:30pm

Aside from the rogue possessive apostrophes, mistakenly inserted because of pluralisation, I am wholly unable to fathom this. Speaking with Stephen Hawking through a Ouija board, he was also at a tremendous loss to explain this. I cannot differentiate between the two separate listings. My mind’s going, Dave, I can feel it. Anyhow, pleased participants in happy hour we were.

2. For visiting Queenslanders the dress code with its variation upon ‘no shoes, no service’ is dispiriting, likely antagonistic news but not so bad for those of us from the shoe-wearing states. And while I’m at it, at what point did wearing footwear guarantee good manners and necessary courtesy towards bar staff and one’s fellow consumers?

3. And there’s an additional gaming room dress code. As I now understand it poker machines, highly sensitive machines that they clearly are, take deep offence at humans resplendent in head ware. Not just a ‘Damn Seagulls’ cap with white splatterings or a West Wyalong Rugby League Football Club beanie but any functional or fashionistic item you may pop on your ungainly bonce.

Funny, isn’t it?

4. Club Marion has a fetching deck overlooking the oval (upon which play the Marion Rams Footy Club) providing a vista east to the Flinders University and Hospital precinct and the low, chestnut Hills. As the regular, welded-on patrons are all huddled inside at their legally designated spots (howdy to Bert, Fred and Sid), we’ve the entire sprawling, outdoor area to ourselves. Neat.

5. In the foyer there’s a book exchange. The novels appear untouched since 1986 but nevertheless, it’s a good idea. Somehow there wasn’t a single John Grisham text present.

6. The club features seven bars. Seven! Club Marion really is Vegas adjacent to the Sturt Creek.

7. Weekly meat tray raffle. In a world surely gone irreparably mad, we can all take comfort from the earthly stability and spiritual nourishment offered by a weekly meat tray raffle (WMTR). Not courtesy of actually buying a ticket or five but by knowing that if we wished to, we could.

8. Club Marion is Adelaide’s home of korfball. I know.

9. The bistro offers Australian salt and pepper squid. As Claire asked, is the salt and pepper Australian or maybe it’s only the salt? Or is it actually Aussie squid? Or are all of the ingredients from our wide, brown land and deep, blue oceans? Regardless, I’m confident it’s superior to the squid I recently had which was sourced exclusively from that global seafood capital, the Czech Republic.

10. In the late afternoon sun, and with my working year now in the rearview mirror, Claire and I had a genteel time on the quiet deck. As the final Mystery Pub episode for the year, it was a welcome chance to pause and contemplate our good fortune.

So, we did.

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Seven Ways of Looking at a Sparkling Ale Longneck

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#1

This statesmanlike, red-labelled bottle is a narrative.

In the realm of ales, it’s Ulysses. A front bar round of pints is often comic theatre, and a butcher of ale (200ml for the uncertain) is a haiku revealing its buried fortune as you dig into its poetic earth. But the Coopers Sparkling Ale prose is of canonical eminence. Like engaging with longform art, there’s opportunity for immersive delight but also an obligation to contemplate life’s deeper themes. It’s your favourite novel, your Great Gatsby which you re-read on the lounge as an affirming annual indulgence after Boxing Day.

#2

No, this beer isn’t The Beatles. With a heart prone to menace and darkness it’s The Rolling Stones and their farewell letter to the sixties, Let It Bleed. Every glass contains Mick and Keef’s nightfall poetry and gritty realities, deathless swagger and irresolvable tension. We traverse from the ‘apocalyptic dread’ of that first foamy tumbler in ‘Gimme Shelter’ to the psychological ruin sweeping across, ’You Can’t Always Get What You Want.’ Now, the music fades and you drain the dregs into your cherished schooner as the glimmering sun slants in over the back lawn.

#3

My Friday evening ritual is a Sistine Chapel visit. Like many of life’s joys, one is sufficient but two is dastardly excess from which no good can result. Take in the grandeur, and purity of aspiration. Open-mouthed and fizzing of brain, I stare up at Michelangelo’s ceiling. But do it only once. And if you’re tempted, don’t return to the fridge for a second bottle. You’re done. What else can you request from a work of art?

#4

Each frosty longneck comes complete with engaging conversation, original observations, and deep introspection. Listen to its voice and you’re reminded of Richard Burton, all conquest and divine warmth, commencing his narration in Under Milkwood

To begin at the beginning:

It is spring, moonless night in the small town

Starless and bible-black

The cobblestreets silent and the hunched

courters’-and-rabbits’ wood limping invisible

down to the sloeblack slow, black, crowblack,

fishingboatbobbing sea.

#5

Old bull: No, let’s walk down and do the lot.

#6

It’s also a maverick. The only beer commonly viewed as being better out of a bottle and not taken from the keg. Why is it so? The scientists could tell us but at play there’s delightful alchemy. Flip the bottle top and shake hands with this twelfth apostle, this preternaturally talented twelfth man cricketer, this Lysithea (the twelfth moon of Jupiter). Another time when the reluctant rebel instructs those of us safely inside the fence line.

#7

Erect of glassed carriage it dominates its alfresco setting. A statement beverage, announcing itself as quietly authoritative. Warning against a flimsy heart but offering steely security of purpose. Depending on the light, it’s a romantic painting by Toulouse-Lautrec, or a Shakespearean sonnet, but ultimately, it’s dynamic and organic like Frank Lloyd Wright’s architectural wonder, Falling Water.

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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.

*

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?

*

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.

*

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.

*

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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Car Horns are Versatile Instruments

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Smiling and waving as you reverse your car. Sunglasses on.

You’re going to an interpreting job. It could be a medical appointment or to watch and learn at a play rehearsal. Or maybe it’s somewhere for yourself like the gym for a yoga class or the beach for an energetic amble.

Of course, you began this ritual and as I hover waiting for its embrace, the arrival is still a sweet surprise. The roller-door descends and moving from the garage to the patio, I feel gratitude for this miracle of everyday punctuation.

A cheery melody. A petite suburban symphony as joyful as the piccolo trumpet solo on ‘Penny Lane.’

There it is. You honk the horn.

Toot-toot!

In your Toyota RAV, you surge down our street. A show of love, the sound’s both a fond farewell but also a promise you’ll keep me close throughout your excursion across our flat, murmuring city.

Now inside, I head to my desk or maybe I’ll wash the large saucepan I’ve rescued from the dishwasher’s clutches. These appliances are theatres of unceasing, marital contest. Ours is a gentle skirmish over a fundamental ideological question: what truly belongs in a dishwasher?

Driving out into the world in your enticing way, you take your warmth and kindness, and the fortunate beneficiaries will be friends and appreciative strangers.

If operated deftly, car horns are versatile instruments. Communicating anger with a single, sustained attack, they can also surprise with a sudden chirp, but your vehicular sonata rises above the ordinary by offering double-noted devotion.

Cascading through the front door, and up the passageway, this amber sound splashes out across the back lawn. Like a bouncing catamaran, it also sails over our home.

In our mostly undisturbed neighbourhood, this rare private and public expression springs over fences and into the sanctuaries of others, a sonorous reminder of the easy joys found in our seaside enclave.

So, as you dash into the realm beyond, leaving behind the fading tones of your affectionate toot, I’m comforted that this aural hug, this little wonder, will linger in the quiet spaces until your homecoming.

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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!