Hieronymous the Anonymous

In the sack

A sick day today. I was up until 2am watching the cricket from South Africa before it was washed out, before going to bed. I had that tight feeling in my sinus and struggled to breathe through my nose, before waking this morning with the tell tale symptoms of a decent cold - swollen, aching glands, sore sinus, a 'busy' head, a sore neck, as well as a general lethargy. I've spent the morning in bed.

I find it a little odd that I should succumb to this now after surviving the swine flu and all the other winter ailments I might so easily have picked up. True, it has been a wet, cold few weeks, but today the sun is shining and I'd rather be anywhere but my bed - though it is nice to have an excuse to rest and catch up on my reading.

In actual fact my health has turned sour since a few weeks ago when I had a general check-up. At the time the doctor told me my blood pressure was perfect, my cholesterol low, and that in general I was in pretty good nick - gratifying news after the tough year I've had. Unfortunately that was the cue for the wheels to begin wobbling.

At the time I was running/walking 5km a day, certainly not something I do for pleasure (I find it boring), but something I felt I needed to do to get back to the level of fitness I desire. At the same time I was doing other general exercise to get me in shape. As of about 10 days ago all that stopped.

In the space of 24 hours I developed two separate and presumably unrelated symptoms that gave me pause. More seriously perhaps, I would lay in bed feeling an intense pain in the middle of my left calf. It was a pointed pain, as if someone was pressing the handle of a brush into my leg, with the pain pulsing and radiating into the surrounding tissue. What worried me was that this is exactly where I had my blood clot last year. Sure enough, my leg once more swelled up.  I probably should have seen a doctor about it, but have decided to wait to see if it persists. Since I've stopped running it's gone away.

The other complaint is less explicable. I seem to have developed tennis elbow out of the blue. There was some tenderness there, but I expected it to go away. Then suddenly it got a lot worse, to the point that the pain was reasonably intense and the discomfort such that I struggled to twist the lid off a bottle.

Much as anything else these ailments have been the source of great frustration as well as inconvenience. There was a sense that I could not take a trick - that just as I was getting back on my own two feet again (literally) and looking to claw back some of what I had lost, I am dragged back again by these problems that just won't go away.

That's for now though. I'll manage, and in time will get back to where I want to be. In this I have to be like the tortoise.

Beware the dog

Image via Wikipedia

Rigby continues to both delight and infuriate. He is affectionate and easy-natured, and even a bit of a sonk. There's nothing he loves more than to cuddle up, to feel the warmth of your body as he dozes off. He loves his walks like all dogs do, loves to go for a run with the leash off and to go for a swim on those occasions I take him to the beach. He loves to chew and lick and to climb. He seems remarkably athletic sometimes, bounding up and down with this untamed energy, jumping onto the bed from stop, leaping up to express his joy at reuniting with me.

He is of a good size now, and importantly of a size where he can easily reach table and bench tops by jumping up with his paws. I'll be brushing my teeth in the bathroom and he'll jump up to lean his paws on the vanity unit to get a better look at what I'm doing. Critically he has combined this recently discovered ability with his insatiable hunger.

I've found to my cost that nothing is safe anymore. He chewed up a pair of bluetooth headphones I had left on my bedside table. The other day reading my newspaper I was curious to see him chewing on a smooth piece of evenly planed wood. What's that I wondered? I discovered it was a wooden spoon which he had plucked from it's container on the kitchen bench.

Just in the last week he has helped himself to my dinner twice, and a snack another time. Last week preparing dinner I was interrupted by the phone ringing. I went to answer it and returned to find my prospective dinner - a chicken fillet and a variety of chopped vegetables - had disappeared from the bench top. Just on the weekend I cut myself a slice of quiche and left the rest of it in the china dish I had baked it in on the bench. Next thing I see is Rigby suspiciously trotting outside - he seems suspicious at such times - to enjoy his spoils outside. Sure enough, the dish remained on the bench, empty and licked clean.

It's amazing how much he loves to eat.

I'm learning, slowly, to adapt my life to his, but it's not really that hard. I just have to learn to keep my dinner well out of his way.

Year of the Cat

Image by JamesDPhotography via Flickr

As predicted, Grand Final day was wet and miserable. Not wanting to drive I caught public transport to the Cheeses home. This necessitated boarding a train full of footy supporters decked out in their club colours on the way to the 'G. I was happy to be going to a mates place, but casting my eye over them and overhearing their excited conversations I couldn't help but recall the few times in the past I have made the same journey as them, and what I felt. Attending the AFL grand final is one of the must-do events in your life. I've been to four.

It was the usual drill at the Cheeses, except this year rather than sitting and eating out in the sunshine we all gathered inside. Dark, heavy clouds hung low in the sky. The wind gusted driving the rain hard and battering anything that wasn't properly secured. It was cold like it was rarely in the winter proper. We boys stood by the barbecue as tradition demands clad in heavy coats.

The lunch was good, and the beer and the wine and the chance to catch up with long held friends, but the real business of the day was the footy. While the kids played in the next room and the women chatted sitting on the couch we boys dispersed around the room watched the action keenly, free with our opinions and explosions of comment directed at the TV.

It was a classically good game, old fashioned in a lot of ways, two tough teams going at each other hard, with the rain turning the game into a more basic contest stripped of many of the elements a lot of people associate with Australian rules football. I'm a purist, I love the spectacular athleticism and skill of the game, but for me what it is really all about is the contest: two teams fighting for the possession of the ball.

In hindsight it's very easy to say that St Kilda should have won. I was conscious in the first half as St Kilda dominated play, but squandered their opportunities thinking they may well pay for that. St Kilda missed 5-6 simple goals that they kicked wide or short, whether it be from inexperience or nerves or the wet conditions. By contrast Geelong nailed every one of theirs, and even managed a goal that wasn't. At half time St Kilda led by 6 points when they should have led by between 20-30 points - virtually unveatable in such conditions it wasn't to be though.

Games like this are all about taking your chances. It's hitting the mark when you have to, stepping up to execute when it counts. St Kilda did much of the hard work well, but failed to capitalise on it. You could say they should have won - and they dominated on every statistic - but should be's don't work in real life. It's not enough that something should be - you have to make it be. On that count St Kilda's loss was deserved.

Give a good team like Geelong enough chances and they're going to take some of them. So it proved. They took the hits and rode it out. In the end Geelong, aided by some good fortune, outlasted St Kilda to win a classic match.

I wanted the Saints to win, but I have a soft spot for the Geelong coach, 'Bomber' Thompson, who I think is a great man. That was that. While they celebrated we knocked off the rest of the red wine and ordered in some pizzas. Another year gone.

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The last Saturday in September...

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There are some bloody big days on the Melbourne sporting calendar - Melbourne Cup,the Boxing Day test, the Grand Prix, Australian Open final, and so on, but for me none is bigger than AFL Grand Final day.

I'm off tomorrow to the Cheese's for the GF barbecue they have every year. We'll have a snag or two, a few beers, a wine, a kick of the footy and the boys will gather around the TV to watch the big game. This is a scene repeated thousands of times around Melbourne,even in non-football following households. Fact of the matter is, regardless of result the day is a good excuse to get social and kick back regardless of result. It's one of those days the whole city and much of the country stop to enjoy.

I love it. I love the whole vibe, the grand final parade, the media, the face painting, the expectation you feel in the streets, the slowly focussing curiosity on the game. Most people have an opinion, and over a beer and amongst friends are unafraid of expressing it.

My team isn't playing tomorrow and so I don't have any stake in the game, and the two teams playing are reasonably inoffensive. Between them Geelong and St Kilda have been starved of success. Geelong won a couple of years and have been the dominant team of this era, but hadn't won since 1963; St Kilda famously won their only premiership in 1966. I hope St Kilda wins, but won't be upset if they don't.

Picking a winner is tough, and something I've been pondering all week long. St Kilda have been the best performed team all year, Geelong the next best but with a wealth of experience behind them. Drawing a line through recent form is tough too. Geelong had a very good win running away against a very disappointing Collingwood in their preliminary final. St Kilda had a much narrower win against far superior opposition in the Bulldogs. That was a quality, but low-scoring game that meant that the Saints needed to pull out all stops to win - and did.

Both teams are littered by great players playing well, but have contrasting styles. The Saints are quite possibly the best defensive team of all time. Geelong at their best play breathtakingly audacious football. St Kilda go wide, Geelong go through the middle. In large part that will be the tale of the day - will St Kilda shut down Geelong, or will Geelong break free.

Looking at the teams St Kilda have the better big forwards in Riewoldt - possibly the best player in the comp - and Koschitzke, compared to the erratic Mooney and the pup Hawkins. Schneider and Milne are handy small forwards but Johnson and Chapman at the Cats are all class. 

The midfield of both sides are great, but again there is a contrast in how they play. Geelong have great inside players with outside flair - Ablett (probably the best player in the comp), Bartel and Selwood. By contrast the Saints have very damaging outside players - Del Santo, Montagna, but Hayes is their only real inside player, though he's a beauty. Both have great stoppers in Ling and Jones. It's a good battle in the rucks, though the St Kilda pairing of Gardiner and King just shade Blake and Ottens. Ottens ability to go forward and be dangerous could prove critical on the day.

Both have fantastic back-lines. Scarlett for Geelong is the best defender in the league. Mackie, Enright and Milburn are all superb. Taylor is their weak point. St Kilda don't have the big names, but it is a great unit - Dawson has been great, Gilbert very good, and both Fisher and Goddard are stars. Really little advantage either way - so where is the difference going to come from?

There are a few variables to consider. Which team did have the better preparation? I'm inclined to think St Kilda. They had a much tougher match but an extra day to get over it. Geelong's win looked impressive, and was, but it was against a team which barely gave a whimper after half time. On the back of returning injured players and patchy form a good solid workout might have been better for them. And the lack of pressure is poor preparation for the big game against a team renowned for their pressure game.

Injuries is the next variable. There's been ongoing queries about Riewoldt's knee, but given he's been the best player of the finals series I don't think it's an issue. I think Johnson from the Cat's is a much bigger concern. He played very well last week after 4-5 weeks out, but in my experience it's often the second game back a player struggles. He's an important player, but I think he'll be quieter this week.

The third variable is the weather. For the first time in many years we look like playing a Grand Final in the rain. This definitely suits Geelong more. They are the bigger bodied team with great finals experience. They are more used to playing in the wind and rain down at Skilled Stadium than St Kilda playing under the roof at Etihad. And St Kilda rely more on their tall marking forwards.

So what does all this point too? A draw just about, and I think it will be close whichever way it goes. It may be the wild-cards that get one team or the other over the line. So what are the wild-cards?

For Geelong it's Ottens. He's a quality player coming back from a long term injury. He has the ability to go forward for Geelong and take the game by the scruff of the neck. I don't think he's ready yet, and weather won't suit him, but it's possible.

My St Kilda wild-card will surprise many. I think it's Goddard. He is so important delivering the ball with precision out of the back-line, but I actually think we might see him swung forward where he can do some damage, particularly on a wet day and with his kicking skills.

Most people are leaning towards Geelong, and I think more has to go right for St Kilda for them to win. If Riewoldt kicks 5 goals they'll probably win, but if he doesn't it doesn't mean they'll lose. I think Koschitzke needs to present though, and their out of form small forwards fire - if Milne and Schneider kick 5 goals between them then the Saints are home - that's my tip.

In the end I'm going with the Saints. I think they're ready, and I still have a feeling that the Cats aren't quite right yet. There's no doubt their best is better than St Kilda's, but these days their best is only rarely seen. I think it will be close all day, Geelong will surge occasionally, while the Saints will be steady, and in the end get over the line by about 9 points, with Riewoldt kicking the sealer at the 29 minute mark of the last quarter.

Final score, just for the hell of it, St Kilda 13.9.87 to Geelong 11.12.78.

What would Jung make of it?

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It was another night rich with extravagant dreams. I lay there with these strange and curious goings on in my nocturnal mind, dreams as if written by Kafka and others by Arthur C. Clark. They were vivid while they continued and there was the sense of myself observing them even as I participated. There was part of me that questioned and wondered at what was happening - these dreams were both narrative and philosophy.

Soon after I woke most were gone in the usual way. One only lingers, and then not in the detail of it, but rather in the knowledge it left me with. I was a space traveller. We had set off on a huge and ambitious journey to the stars. I recall that we had a big send-off, and were big news. But then as we rocketed into the dark blue of the cosmos all that seemed forgotten. All was quiet, almost serene, and mysteriously unknown.

This was the journey of a lifetime, the journey I had always wanted to make. And yet as we travelled quietly towards our distant destination a sense of isolation descended upon me. I missed the noise and community of the world I had left behind, the gossip, the politics, the sheer energy that touches upon you being part of the human race on earth. I felt detached from that, and alone almost as if I had chosen to forever leave that behind - which in a sense I had, knowing that this trip would be years in the making and that if ever I should return to earth then it would be at time far advanced of today and to a world much different.

It was odd. I've watched movies and read books about similar stories and felt then only sense of adventure and mystery and curiosity. More often than I can think have I imagined myself in that role and feeling nothing more than those lively emotions. They were true enough, I thought, but truer still is the reality of being alone in an infinite cosmos. That's how it would be, cut off from the world and no longer a part of the community that had made you.

Dreams are curious things, and I'm never quite sure how much I should read into them. One thing that never ceases to surprise me is the insight I am gifted to asleep and dreaming that is absent from me conscious and awake. No matter what you believe, it's hard to argue there is much more going on in our dreams that strange stories.

Gone and still to come

Friday night I went out drinking (La Buena Vita and Cabinet), which culminated in a midnight feast at Crown gulping down KFC and Krispy Kreme donuts. In other words, a typical, unhealthy Friday night.

On Saturday I was content to take it easy. The sky was low with cloud, it was cool, and through the morning a few showers passed by, which became late in the afternoon a heavy, hushed rain. I stayed in bed late and when I got up I tended to the usual Saturday chores and routines.

In the afternoon I set myself a task. I have about 300 odd CD's crammed tightly together in the draw of my entertainment unit. There are few I play with any regularity, and even those are rare. I'm almost ashamed to admit that most of my music is now heard in mp3 format or something similar, in my iPod or iPhone, through the iTunes on my desktop or streamed to remote speakers. CD's seem very old hat these days. And so I decided to clean out the drawer, toss the CD's I don't want (giveaways, prizes, ill-considered purchases), pack away the CD's I never play, and generally make space in the drawer for the CD's I listen to, and the growing collection of DVD's that don't have a home.

There are worse jobs than this. I sat on the coffee table in front of the unit sifting through the CD's putting them into different piles while outside it was cold and dreary. I played an audiobook as I worked, a 'young adult' book as it happens by John Marsden, Tomorrow, When the War Began (pretty good). Time passed quickly and easily as I paused to decide which pile a CD belonged to, or stopped to consider a CD I had long forgotten.

One of the piles was of CD's I wanted to listen to again for olds times sake, and possibly to rip to my iTunes library. Towards evening I took these CD's into my study and began sorting through them on my Mac.

One CD I bought many years ago was by Rickie Lee Jones. Though it was an unusual CD for me I had searched for it a couple of months ago wanting to play a song from it. The CD is Pop Pop, a collection of covers of classic songs. It's a better CD than you might think, though for me now the CD is inextricably associated with a time in my life. It has sentimental value.

That's one of the things we love about music. How it frames our lives, our consciousness. It is great in itself, but of course there is a lot we come to associate with particular moments, or eras in our life. Music is a memory carrier, we need only hear certain songs to be transported back to other times.

That's how it was for me again on Saturday. As I played Rickie Lee Jones and listened to her sweet, slightly slurred delivery I remembered Berni. In particular I recalled a bright, warm Saturday afternoon when I lay on my couch in the early nineties - '91 perhaps? - and listened to this very CD. As I lay there I thought of Berni. Earlier in the day we had met at a house warming party of a colleague of ours, a Canadian girl called Maria and her husband Terry, at their new home in Burwood. 

We knew hardly anyone there and so Berni and I stuck together. Our relationship was always so delicate, and in this period we had slowly begun coming out of one of the difficult phases where she pulls away, uncertain and afraid of what she felt, and of the perils of commitment. She was bright though on this day sitting by my side in the bright sunshine, playful and cheeky and at her best. I was relieved to see this and delighted, and responded in the same way. Like this we bat things backwards and forwards between us in the style that always had other people smiling and shaking their heads at the wit and inventiveness and sheer affection that bounced between us.

What was notable about this day was after all these months of fraught relationship negotiations she slipped and made comment about when 'we are married'. I said nothing and made no sign that anything unusual had occurred, but I was secretly thrilled. This was a breakthrough of sorts, an acknowledgement by her of our relationship. What was significant was that she said it aloud, had made some sort of public commitment she could not rescind.

Once said though more came. We discussed what it would be like and what we would do and pondered what the children would look like. I went along with this gently, not pushing too hard or too fast, not revealing any of my own excitement. I acted as if everything was perfectly normal, afraid of giving her fright.

I think that's what I thought about on my couch as I listened to Rickie Lee Jones. There was one song which caught me more and which in the weeks and months after as our relationship fluctuated that I found myself coming back to again and again. Comin' Back To Me is a melancholy seeming tune that seemed to seep into me as I lay there. I didn't know what was to come. I didn't even know what I should think of our conversation hours earlier. All I thought was how I cherished her and wanted to hold her close to me, and shelter her; and how complex she was. The day dwindled into dusk and I lay there not wanting to get up from where I lay, not wanting anything to shift for those moments.

That doesn't happen though. Things shift and change always. At some point after that we argued and came together again and argued then for the last time. We shared good times in my home and hers and there came a time when I believed that the promise of that day was about to be realised, only to find a day later that it was all over. In time we parted and never saw each other again. Then years later I heard of her death, something I can never forget.

I remembered all that as I sat at my desk playing this long-forgotten music.

That might be end of the story, but it isn't.

I went out yesterday to a party at my Mums. It was surprisingly good and I got home at about 7pm with a few more wines under my belt. For the next few hours I lay on the couch and flicked through the TV stations. At some point I happened across Notting Hill, and stopped.

For a start the scenes in bustling Notting Hill reverberated in me for reasons I'll explain shortly. Then of course Hugh Grant meets Julia Roberts and though it's very unlikely they share a moment. Most blokes at that point would have accepted it for what it was, taken it as great story to tell the mates down the pub. Of course in the movie Hugh Grant contrives to meet again the unattainable movie star, and of course, in the way of movies, ends up landing her. No doubt they live happily ever after.

As I watched I felt my excitement grow as if this meant something. Here was a message or a meaning.

On Saturday morning I had woken to find an email waiting for me from a head-hunter inviting me to apply for this you beaut job in London for double the money I was earning in my last job and with a 40% bonus. My first thoughts were sounds great, but...why don't these jobs come up in Melbourne? It didn't seem feasible, and though I ruminated on it over the rest of the weekend that seemed pretty much it.

Seeing this movie re-awakened that possibility. I could be living in those streets, I thought. Why not? What is there to lose? It dawned on me then how quickly things can change. We never know what's around the corner, and even when things seem darkest it does not take much to light things up again. I watched Hugh Grant in his clumsy pursuit of Julia Roberts and I admired his persistence - he lived the dream, and though it's only a movie, he got it. That's the thing, you have to for it. You have to believe in the dream and live it.

When I heard of Berni's death and found she had killed herself I was profoundly moved, as you might expect. There is one abiding outcome from that which may seem odd. I grieve for Berni, I loved her with all my heart and even all those years later she had only to call on me and I would be there to help her. That was not to be. Her life seems sad and unfulfilled, and I was part of it. I have felt ever since that I have to live for her as well, that in some way I had to make-up for what happened. 

Anything is possible. You can't curl up in a ball and hope things will right. And I don't think you should settle. I picked up the phone and called the friend I was out with on Friday night. She has been struggling one way or another in recent times. I told her what I thought. Don't give up. Keep believing, keep doing. She began to cry. I reiterated how quickly things can change, and that soon enough we might be laughing at how things turned out. And then, as she prompted me, I told her how it might be in every detail, how it might happen, realistic, but sweet.

As for me, I'll have a crack at the London job. Hard to believe there isn't anyone over there as well qualified as I am, and I don't expect it to happen, but, who knows. Live the dream, right?

Just rewards

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It was nice to see yesterday Kim Beazley appointed as our next ambassador to the US.

Like most Australians I have a lot of time for Beazley. I think we recognise in him a genuinely good bloke, a rarity in politics and possibly why he never quite made it to the Lodge. While that may be a disappointment to him he has been a great servant to the Australian people, and I'm sure will make a very good ambassador.

He is a decent, kindly, man with the sort of jolly nature we associate with larger men. He is also a man of great intellect, greater than most of his contemporaries. It's a good package, but it just goes to show you need more than that to reach the very top. What Beazley lacked was ruthlessness, and that over-weening belief in self that views success as a God given right.

Years ago in the early days of his leadership of the opposition I wrote a stinging letter to the Labor apparatchiks explaining to them bitterly why Beazley would never be Prime Minister. As someone who despised Howard and whose politics were just left of centre I was deeply frustrated by this. While I admired Beazley for the reasons above, I knew then he didn't have what is need to reach the very top.

Much of politics is managing peoples expectations and their emotions. You can have the greatest policies in the world but if you don't inspire confidence then you're dead in the water. It's not that Beazley didn't have the tools - I'm sure he would have made a fine Prime Minister - the problem was that he was not perceived as being a strong leader.

It's ironic really, because Beazley is no weaky, unfortunately though he felt forced to play a role that was not natural to him. Whether he was poorly advised or he took it upon himself I don't know, but I remember watching his public performances with a seething frustration.

In opposition you have to oppose I guess, and to do this Beazley would wrinkle his brow and put on his stern face and harangue the government. It was totally unconvincing, and the public, as it always does, saw through it. The problem was that is was performance. He was acting the way he thought he should be acting, rather than reacting from his true self. The public will always give you some license to over-act, that's politics after all and much of it's theatre. What it won't cop is this contrived toughness, they'll laugh it out of court. You're tough or you're not, you can't pretend to be.

One of the things that led me to write was exasperation at the waste this represented. This wasn't working, was never going to work and furthermore didn't deserve to work. Yet here was a man universally liked by Australians of all political persuasions, a genuinely decent man of soaring intelligence, and with a nice bedside manner to boot. Wasn't this enough to be without trying to be something else?

I got no response to my letter and Beazley went on to lose the next election and the one after that. He got close-ish in 1998, but was blown out of the water in 2001 after the Tampa affair. That was a deplorable blight on our history, and no-one comes out of it looking good - including Beazley.

One of the reasons I despised John Howard so much is his obsession with power regardless of cost - the cost being to the country. Again and again he changed the political conversation - and ultimately the political culture - not for the benefit of the country he served, but to suit his cheap political needs. He was past master at exploiting things to his own advantage, even to the point of injustice, to dishonourable lengths. The Tampa affair was just another example of that.

In brief a ship carrying illegal immigrants foundered off the north west coast of Australia. A passing container ship - the Tampa - picked up the survivors as they sailed towards Perth. What happened then is the crux of this tragedy. Before they reached Australian territorial waters the ship was boarded by the Australian navy and stopped. Once they reached Australian waters Australia was duty bound to accept the immigrants as refugees. Howard didn't want that.

Leading up to a federal election he leapt upon the incident and beat it up in his inimitable way, claiming that Australia was being invaded by these illegal immigrants, that he was protecting our borders against  people who had no right to be here. He banged the drum hard, playing the fear card, the race card and incited outrage at this perceived 'invasion'. Come in spinner, and the Australian public were duped.

What then does Beazley do? Howard has ambushed him very cleverly. Beazley can either go along with the new rules of the game as set by Howard and join the chorus hoping to look strong on security. Or he could differentiate himself, could stand for what he believes in, could speak out against the injustice, the fear-mongering, the misinformation being spread. This was his chance.

I'm an idealist. That's probably clear. I probably couldn't survive 5 minutes in politics. I believe in things. In principles. In justice. In doing the right thing, in remembering that as Australians, as strong and rich in a world of weak and poor, we have obligations that cannot be denied if we want to be a moral and decent nation. Howard was over-turning all that for his own political ends - this was Beazley's chance to make a stand for what was right.

Unfortunately Beazley blinked. The tide was running one way and he went with it, putting on his stern face to do so. We'll never know what might have happened had he gone with his principles. He might have won the consequent election or he might have been absolutely flogged. We know that his decision made no difference, and was roundly defeated regardless.

I sound like I'm condemning Beazley, and I guess I am. Howard, for all faults was true to himself; Beazley was not. To be successful in pretty well anything you have to act with conviction. This comes from knowing yourself and being true to it. We have a right to expect of our elected representatives that they will stand for something. Once you take the oath you're fair game, it's tough but it's what you asked for. Beazley, an intelligent, good man, failed this test and the consequences were awful - 6 more years of Howard pulling his stunts and taking the country down a wicked road, SIEV X, the children overboard affair, and so on...

That's history now, and history will remember Beazley for his much broader contribution to Australian life. He's done a lot of good and I'm sure he'll continue to as our representative in the states.

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Poor form all round

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On a whim this morning I got up early to watch the last 45 minutes of the cricket from England. Australia led the series 5-0 going into this match, and were well on their way to another easy victory. Win again on Sunday and its a series clean sweep, nice, and it goes some way to make up for losing the Ashes - but never far enough.

In any case I sat there on my couch watching while the sun rose outside and the day began and it was all very conventional until the after match presentations.

Poor old Andrew Strauss, six times now he's had to get up on stage in front of a home crowd and make some sort of explanation for a succession for woeful performances. It's a tough gig and he must be sick of coming up with different answers while the team continues to under-perform (though Australia has been exceptional).

I have a lot of time for Strauss. For a start he leads from the front, as a captain should. He had a very good Ashes series and has been their best player in the one-dayers. It's not his fault they're losing. I like his style too. He's not a flashy batsman, but he's solid, and he brings those same qualities to his captaincy.

I had thought him stolid and unimaginative, and while that is occasionally true you can't fault his heart or his work ethic, he's honest and he tells it like it is.

That's one of the reasons I was shocked this morning when he was booed as he walked to the dais. I'm sure those sour English supporters doing this are not representative of the English public, but it is another indication of the capricious nature of the English sporting public. For fucks sake, you've just won the Ashes! A month ago they were riding high and acting smug. Now it's turned the other way.

I can imagine few good reasons why any captain should be booed, least of all Andrew Strauss. It's reprehensible. I know as an Aussie that the only time an Australian captain is booed it's by the opposition supporters - which is what happened through the Ashes this year. Not good form perhaps, but you'll cop it, as Ponting did.

One of the strengths of Australian sport is its unity and purpose, it'll stick through good and bad. And while the Australian public expect a lot they've been given a lot, and know it. Even when it's not so good we know that the team is fighting, and we have faith that things will turn - as always they do. From bad things good things come.

It's something the English could well learn. It's stout characters like Strauss who can take them to the top - unfortunately there is still much in the national temperament that serves to undermine that success and prevent it from being anything more than fleeting.

Op-Ed Columnist - Boy, Oh, Boy - NYTimes.com

The outburst was unexpected from a milquetoast Republican backbencher from South Carolina who had attracted little media attention. Now it has made him an overnight right-wing hero, inspiring “You lie!” bumper stickers and T-shirts.

via www.nytimes.com

Is this the other side of the argument I was making last week?

I'm an advocate of free speech and robust debate. While that does not mean I condone outbursts like Joe Wilsons, my first inclination is to dismiss them as an act of stupidity. I am aware also that it can be dangerous giving too much air time to incidents like this - in such a way molehills can become nasty mountains.

There is another angle though. I am not close enough to the cut and thrust of US society on a daily basis. I read a lot - more than most - and like most people in the western world am exposed to US culture through movies and TV, and the big headlines that make the daily papers. No matter how closely I read I do so from a perspective that is not American - which is both a positive and a negative.

Dowd suggests in her article that Wilson's outburst was the explosive consequence of simmering racism. I can't say yay or nay to that because I don't walk American streets, don't listen to the conversations in American bars and coffee shops, am not exposed to the nuances of the discussion there. In this case I have to bow to Dowd, a seasoned correspondent and there on the spot.

One thing Joe Wilson's outburst seems to have done is to lift the lid on some unsavoury divisions on the political stage. As I suspected it would his comments and the publicity following them seem to have brought the extremists out of the woodpile. At the same time it is being reported more commonly even here that there is a racial tinge to much of what is happening - which Down explicitly alludes to.

In the end what do you believe? I'm tending to think that opposition to Obama is not all about his politics. If that's true then it's hardly new, but is very disappointing. And if it's true then the likes of Joe Wilson should be called out. As Dowd quotes in her article, silence gives consent.

Old dogs and old masters

As the sun eases towards the horizon the dog walkers come out. There are many dogs in this neighbourhood, and many parks for them to frolic in. There is a fellowship between dog walkers. You smile and nod your head to those you come across, members of the same club, familiar with all the same challenges...and happily so.

Amongst all the dogs in the area there are old dogs too, slowly, stiffly walking behind their old master as they follow familiar trails, growing old together. There are times this seems a poignant sight, a deep and abiding relationship tailing off towards its end.

I am reminded as I watch of my grandfather, how each night he would walk their dog, a border collie called Lassie. He was a gentle, reserved man, very old school when looked at from the halcyon days we live in now, the product of other times just as I am the product of times since.

I spent many school holidays staying with my grandparents in their home in Strathmore. I remember the pinched face of my grandmother, always on the go as if she were driven to keep doing, a sharp mind behind what was occasionally a sharp personality. She adored me, and I expected no less. I remember her apple crumble made from the apples my grandfather grew in their suburban backyard. He was a clever gardener, splicing together the shoots of different apple varieties so that they grew on the one tree. He There was  a quince tree too, and an almond tree in the corner. There was always a lot of fruit.

Year after year I went there, growing each year as determined by the mark on the wall my grandfather would make. Besides my grandmother he always seemed slow, measured, almost wise in his reserve. His face was red, I remember, a pleasant looking man with a full head of lush hair, and always well turned out.

I remember how when I stayed we would walk the dog quietly together, down the pathway cut between streets and to the park - what was it called? He's long dead now, and so to my grandmother, and I dare say the apple trees and quince from their yard in Strathmore have been cleared since by some young family looking for space for their children to play in.